


Things that Leave Marks

by thestoryinsideme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Cabin Fic, Destiel - Freeform, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Human Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Independent Castiel, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Romance, alternate SU post 9.03, canon compliant through 9.03, dean/cas - Freeform, post 9.03, supernatural universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-02-16 23:11:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2287967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestoryinsideme/pseuds/thestoryinsideme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once the rogue angel Dean had allowed inside his brother was expelled and Sam was safe, a guilt-ridden Dean searched high and low for his friend and former angel, Castiel.  Unable to find him, Dean presumed he was dead.  Until, that is, the fateful day he ran into him during a quick stop in a small northwestern town more than three years later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ones on His Hands

The first year after Castiel left, Dean imagined that he found a safe place, that he had been able to hide from the angels, demons, reapers, and whatever else was after him.  He told himself that must be exactly what happened, and it was the only explanation for his inability to locate him that Dean was willing to entertain.

The second year after Castiel left, Dean prayed to an absent God that he had found someone, that he was not alone out there. It was a nasty habit he had picked up, this praying thing, and he felt like a fool each and every time he mentally fell to his knees and folded his hands together. But he wanted to believe his prayers were heeded and that Castiel had someone who cared for him, someone he cared for in return, because Castiel needed to be needed. 

The third year after Castiel left, Dean knew that he would never see him again. His chances of surviving years of being hunted by beings who possessed powers he no longer had, forces that were impossible to defend against, were next to nil.  In all likelihood, his best friend was dead, and it was Dean’s fault as surely as if he had killed him with his own two hands.

Still, he looked for him.  Everywhere he went.  In every town he drove by or through.  He kept a notebook, along with an old, rare photograph of the Angel, that he showed around.  He stopped expecting to find him, but he never stopped looking for him, and he knew that he never would.

Dean almost missed the sign for Endurance, one mile ahead, while he blinked.  In fact, if he had blinked one more time he would have likely missed the town itself as he drove by on his way to visit Sam and his new wife.  But he caught it, and turned off of the road and down a hill then around a bend to find himself at what appeared to be the town center. He pulled up alongside the sidewalk, parked the Impala, and slid the tattered notebook into his jacket pocket before making his way to the glass front building that by all appearances, was the general store.

“No.  Wait. Maybe?  He looks kinda familiar.”  The clerk behind the counter squinted and held the photograph closer, nearly to the tip of his nose, as he studied it.

Dean has heard that before.  He opened his book, ready to take notes.  Even though he wrote small, this book was nearly full of his scribbles.  A few more towns, and he would have to get another one. 

“Who does he look like?”  Dean asked, sounding as if he was on official FBI business.  “You got a name?”

“He looks a bit like Bob.  Around the eyes.”

“Bob.”  Dean repeated, then licked the tip of his pencil and wrote the name down.  “Okay. What’s Bob’s last name?”

The man shrugged.  “Can’t rightly say I know.  He lives up in the mountain.  Comes down once, sometimes twice a month or so.  For supplies.”

“Where can I find this Bob?”

“I just told ya,” the clerk said, frowning. “Up on the mountain.”

Dean sighed exasperation.  “Yes.  Yes you did.  But you see, that mountain over there?  It’s big. It’s very big. So I’m going to need something a little more specific from you.”

“Well, now, I don’t think I like your tone, mister.”

Dean has heard that before, too.

 _____________________________

 

Dean left the store when the man politely suggested, shotgun in hand, that he do so.  He looked up and down the street, decided he’d check in with a couple of the other stores and the local diner, maybe even pick up a piece of pie, then go on his way.  On second thought, he would definitely pick up a piece of pie. 

He was headed toward the diner when he saw him.

He stood no more than twenty feet away from Dean on two lean, shaky legs.  Legs clad in denim blue jeans and leather boots.  His face was heavily bearded, obscuring his strong, square jaw and distinctive chin, but there was no mistaking the identity of the man in front of him once he saw his eyes.  Heavy lidded, bluer than blue, otherworldly eyes.

Dean rubbed his own eyes with the palms of his hands to make sure he was not seeing things, that this was not a mirage, or vision, like what he had seen after purgatory, or something more sinister. Something supernatural.

Castiel stopped and stared at him.  He made no movement toward him, no gesture at him. He looked at Dean, observed him from where he stood still in his own tracks in the snow.

It was Dean who spoke first.  “Hey, there.”

Dean strode toward Castiel.  It was hard to name the expression under the trapper hat and facial hair, but if he had to guess, it wasn’t joy.

It stung a little, or a lot, that Castiel wasn’t happy to see him.  But considering how they parted ways, he wasn't sure why he expected anything else.  Uncertain of what to say next, Dean defaulted to humor. “Well if it isn’t Grizzly Adams.”

Castiel canted his head to one side, and Dean’s goddamned heart balked, refused to beat for longer than Dean would have thought possible. 

“You don’t remember me.”  Castiel lowered his eyes.

“No, no, no, Cas.  Of course I remember you.”

Castiel looked up, his eyes brightened by Dean’s mention of his name.

“Grizzly Adams is just the name of a…never mind.”

Castiel yanked his hat off and raked his fingers through long, unkempt hair.  “I thought perhaps you no longer knew me.  It has been several years.”

“Nah.  It doesn’t work that way, Cas.”  Dean couldn’t miss how Castiel’s brows wrinkled as Dean spoke.   “We don’t stop knowing each other just because we haven’t seen each other in a while.”

“Oh.  I’m mistaken, then.  It’s just that that was…” Castiel changed his mind and ended the sentence mid-thought.

“That was what?” 

Castiel finished the sentence reluctantly.  “That was what it felt like happened.”

Dean felt terrible, horrible, like the awful person that deep down he knew he was. If there had been a nearby rock big enough to hide under, he would have, but he was out of luck.  It was a good time to apologize, to say he was sorry for everything he did, even sorrier for everything he _didn’t_ do, but when he opened his mouth, those were not the words that came out.

“Let me buy you some pie, Cas.”

_______________________________

  

They sat quietly in the diner, as if neither one of them had anything to say to the other.  Dean knew there was nothing farther from the truth, at least as far as _he_ was concerned.  But perhaps Castiel really didn’t have anything to say to him.  Perhaps Castiel lost interest in all things Dean Winchester a long time ago.  And why wouldn’t he?  Dean certainly had.

Dean watched Castiel move, found himself fascinated by what most would consider to be insignificant things.  Castiel unbuttoning his jacket with both hands. Castiel sliding into the booth as if he has done this every day for the last three years.  Castiel tugging at each finger of his leather gloves then pulling them off, one at a time.  Ordinary things.  Human things.

The jacket Castiel placed on the bench seat was fur-lined, and he wore layers of shirts underneath.  Dean noted a white knit Henley beneath his dark blue button up shirt. He couldn’t tell if there was another shirt under the Henley or whether it was simply bare skin there. Dean thought briefly about that bare skin, then bit sharply on his upper lip in an attempt to keep his mind from wandering in that direction, as he was sure it would only get lost there. Instead, he thought again about the layers, and he was pleased that if nothing else, Castiel had learned from him how to keep warm.

“Well howdy, Bobby.”  The woman who stopped to speak to Castiel on the way out of the diner was attractive, probably in her mid-thirties.  She glanced at Dean, but gazed blissfully at Castiel.

Bobby?  It hadn’t really occurred to Dean, but it made every bit of sense that Castiel would have taken on a false name. 

Castiel smiled shyly at her.  “Muriel.  How are you today?”

“I’m good.  It’s been quite a few weeks since we’ve seen you in town.  Everything okay on the mountain?”

“Yes, everything’s fine,” he answered. “The roads have been a bit icy, and I didn’t want to risk it with the truck.”

“Oh, well, we missed ya,” she said, then dropped her chin, coy.  “ _I_ missed ya.”

A small boy ran over to the woman and grabbed her leg. “Hi Mr. Singer.”

“I think you’ve grown two or three inches in the last few months,” Castiel said.

The child nodded enthusiastically.  “I have.  I’m getting big.”

It became obvious to Dean that Castiel was not going to make introductions, so he extended his hand to the woman and said “I’m Dean.”

“Nice to meet you.” She shook his hand slowly. “I swear, Bobby, sometimes I think you were raised in a barn.”

Dean coughed, and Castiel looked at Muriel with pursed lips.  “My apologies. I do forget my manners sometimes.”

“So how do you two know each other?” Muriel addressed the question to Dean, but before Dean could tell her that they were good friends, best friends, Castiel responded.

“We worked together once.” Castiel’s low, brisk tone indicated that there would be no more answers for her on that subject.

She seemed to get it.  “Don’t be a stranger, Bobby.  Stop by when you get a chance.  I have something for you.”  Muriel then offered Dean an earnest smile.  “And it’s surely nice to meet you, Dean.”

“Bobby Singer?”  Dean asked once Muriel left and no one else was in earshot.

“I needed a pseudonym.  It’s a good name.”

“Yeah, it is,” Dean said. “And Bobby isn’t using it anymore so I guess it was up for grabs.”

Castiel frowned.  “I chose the name in tribute, Dean.  Also, with hopes that I might become as good a man as he was.”

It was one of those days where Dean couldn’t seem to say anything right.  Then again, that was every day.  “No, no, Cas, it’s nice.  I shouldn’t have made a joke about it.”

Castiel reached into his pocket and pulled something out that he fiddled with for a few moments before Dean saw what it was. Castiel slid the eyeglasses over his nose and looked straight at Dean.  Eyeglasses.  Castiel, former multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent, now needed eyeglasses to read the greasy menu at a small town diner.

“That’s better,” Castiel said.

When Castiel reached across the table for a menu, Dean watched his now exposed hands.  He remembered those hands, had always liked those hands.  Long and lean, yet strong. Strong enough to pull a man from hell, he thought, even though he knew Castiel was not in this body, this very human body that now belonged to Castiel alone, when he raised Dean from perdition.  But sometimes when he dreamed, when he had nightmares about Hell, he saw himself being freed from invisible chains, being hauled up and away by those hands. Being saved by those hands.

Castiel’s hands were no longer the same.  They moved more clumsily, less surely. And now those hands had scars. Several scars. Across the top, along the joints of his fingers, on the meat of his palm.

“How did that happen?” Dean pointed to a straight, diagonal white line on the back of Castiel's hand, extending from his thumb to his forefinger.  He envisioned the worst, imagined Castiel fighting for his life every day since he made him leave the bunker, battered by angels and demons and everything in between, cursing Dean Winchester the entire time for abandoning him.

Castiel glanced at his hand and shook his head. “Frozen pizza.”

That was probably the last answer Dean expected. “Say what?”

“Ovens are hot Dean.  Unfortunately, I didn’t learn about oven mitts at the same time I learned about ovens.”

“What about this one?”  Dean pointed to a similar scar on Castiel’s other hand.

“Cookies.”

“And this one?”

“Also cookies.”

“So you like cookies, huh?”  Dean laughed, then smiled at Castiel.

Castiel nodded and smiled back.  “I do.  Very much.” 

Castiel looked different when he smiled. Castiel hadn’t smiled much as an angel, but when he did it was reserved and withholding. Castiel’s human smile was unlike his angel smile.  It was genuine and relaxed. It started at his lips and moved up and around his face, ended at the corners of his eyes. Dean first saw Castiel’s human smile that night they brought him back to bunker, before Dean kicked him out, and it had made him feel something he thought at the time that he shouldn’t be feeling.  When Castiel smiled at him from across the diner table, he felt that same thing again, only different, more.

Dean reached across the table and took one of Castiel’s hands in his.  He held it, palm up, and drew his finger along the jagged mark there.  “What about this one?  Let me guess.  Cupcakes?”

“Wendigo.”

Dean wasn’t expecting that answer either. Castiel has been hunting, and Dean was not sure if he was angry or proud.  Maybe a little bit of both.

“Jesus, Cas, you’re hunting?”

“Sometimes.  When it’s necessary.”

Dean shook his head, his disapproval evident. “You shouldn’t be hunting. It’s dangerous.”

Castiel leaned forward and lowered his voice to just above a whisper.  “The people of this town need protection.  They have no idea what is out there.  I do.”

“So you think it’s your job to protect them?”

“I do what I can.  I may no longer be an angel, but I will always be a keeper.”  Castiel pulled his hand away from Dean.  “It gives me purpose.”

Dean swallowed hard.  He remembered the days when Castiel was _his_ keeper, and he found himself wanting those days back. He would do things differently, given the chance.  “I understand.”

“Thank you.”  Castiel leaned back in the booth.  “How is Sam?”

“Sam is awesome.” Dean sat back also, grateful for the change in subject. “In fact, I was on my way to see him when I stopped here.  He lives a couple hundred miles from here, with a pretty girl he calls his wife.  Can you believe that?”

Castiel grinned and nodded.  “Yes, I can believe that.  Good for Sam.  So are you alone at the bunker now?”

“Kevin left shortly after Sam did, so yeah.” Dean shrugged. “I think that’s how it was meant to be.”

Castiel smirked.  “Meant to be?  What happened to screwing destiny right in the face?”

“Ah, yes.  Good times, good times.”  Dean grinned at the memory, while Castiel appeared to be doing his best to squelch a smile. “So what’s this mountain man look you’ve got going on?” Dean stroked his hand over his own chin to indicate what he was talking about.

“It keeps me warm.  And I _am_ a man who lives on a mountain.” Castiel smoothed his beard, brow furrowed. “You don’t like it?”

“No, no, it’s fine, it’s just that, I don’t, uh. It reminds me a little of purgatory.”

“Oh.”  Castiel’s shoulders sagged. 

“I’m just not used to it is all.”

“Of course you’re not used to it. You haven’t seen me in more than three years.” Castiel folded his arms across his chest and looked away from Dean.

Dean did it again.  He said the wrong thing.  “Look, Cas, I’ve got a lot of stuff to tell you.  Is there somewhere we can go?”

Castiel nodded.  “I have a place.  On the mountain.”

“Then what say we get our pie to go.” Dean immediately took to the idea of going to Castiel’s home, seeing what kind of things Castiel likes, what he surrounds himself with.  It would be fun.

Castiel agreed, and Dean ordered two pieces of each of the three types of pie. The waitress brought Dean’s order to the table in one bag, handed another bag to Castiel with a wink.

“This is for you know who.  Her favorite.  Give her a big hug for me, wouldya Bobby?”

Castiel dipped his head and thanked her.

“So, you don’t live alone?”  Dean tried to sound unaffected, but he was. As much as he had hoped for it over the years, as much as he had wished it for Castiel’s sake, once he saw Castiel in the flesh, the idea of someone else by his side was inconceivable.

“No, I don’t.”  Castiel stood up and slipped on his jacket, then his hat while Dean sat still, wavered on what his next move should be.  “You can meet her when we get to the cabin. You’ll like her.”

“Oh, okay.”  Dean gulped.  He doubted very much that he was going to be able to like her.  Dean looked down at his hands, pressed together on the table to keep them in check. This was _not_ going to be fun, and it was definitely not going to be easy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://thestoryinsideme.tumblr.com//) here!


	2. The Ones on His Face

Dean didn’t use the word treacherous much, he wasn’t sure he could even spell it to be honest, but there was no other way to describe the roads that lead to Castiel’s home on the mountain.   Dean followed Castiel’s oversized pickup truck with great caution, ensuring that no cold weather harm came to the Impala. When they got there, he parked behind Castiel and to the side of the small log cabin.

Castiel waited for Dean before following the worn path to the front door.  He unlocked it and pushed it open, called out as they entered the small, warm space.

“Sam.  Where are you Sam?  Come on out, sweetheart.  We have company.” Castiel dropped the bags from the diner on a table in the kitchen area, then removed his coat and hat, hung them both on a wall rack by the front door.  Dean did the same with his jacket.

Sam?  “So her name is Sam?  Huh. What are the chances?” Dean looked around but he saw and heard no one. He wondered if Castiel's friend Muriel knew about this Sam person.  He figured she must, based on the lovesick way she ogled Castiel at the diner.  “She's probably in the bedroom, hiding under the covers,” Castiel said, as if hiding under the covers was normal behavior. “She’s not used to company.”

“So you got yourself a shy one, eh?” Dean teased and Castiel laughed.

“More like lazy, I’d say.”

“Hey now, be nice.”  Dean didn’t know why he defended her.  If Castiel said she was lazy, then there was a hundred percent chance that she was, because Castiel called them how he saw them. Castiel knew how to lie, although he never quite mastered it, but it appeared that he still hadn’t learned the value of a well-placed fib. 

“Oh, believe me, I _am_ nice to her.  She’s got me wrapped around her finger, as they say.”  Castiel put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Even when she misbehaves.”

Dean tucked his own hands in his front pockets. “Yeah, I bet you are.” He muttered it under his breath, then flinched at how bitter it came out, but he couldn’t help it. He’d never heard Castiel speak about another human being this way and it clawed at him, the unmistakable affection, the sheer familiarity.  He wondered what, if anything, she already knew about Dean, when it occurred to him that she may know absolutely nothing at all.

“Well if you’ve given her a heads up about me, she probably just doesn’t want to meet me.” Dean said it lightly and with a closed-mouth grin so that Castiel could brush it off as humor if he wanted to.

Castiel shook his head.  “She’s an excellent companion, but she pays very little mind to anything I have to say.”

Dean waited while Castiel went to the bedroom and Dean lost sight of him. “There you are,” he heard him say, and Dean braced himself for what was next.  Shit. The last thing he needed was a repeat of the Daphne debacle. It was after Castiel died in the reservoir, when he believed he had lost him forever, that Dean first grappled with some realizations about his friendship with Castiel.  When he saw Daphne, when she was introduced to him as the Angel’s wife, he was certain that his face had given him away, but Castiel, even as Emmanuel, was oblivious.  Dean was thankful for that. 

“Come on.  Now that’s a good girl.” Castiel’s voice came from the other room. The tone was something he had heard before but never from his friend, the quality and rhythmic timbre of it similar to how one might speak to a small child, or even to a…

The dog darted out of the room ahead of Castiel and jumped up on Dean, disturbing his thoughts and nearly knocking him over.

Satisfaction and something else that felt even better washed over Dean, and although he knew it not to be true, he swore that he had never felt so relieved in his life.

Dean regained his footing, then buried his hands in Sam’s furry neck and scratched.  “Well hello Sammy.  Pleasure to meet you,” he said, and he meant it.  Sam responded with a smack of her tongue and some heavy tail wagging.

“I knew she’d like you.”  Castiel smiled when Dean got down on the floor with Sam to rub her belly.  “It’s nice that you two get along.”

“It is?”  Dean looked up at Castiel.  “Why is that?”

“Because she’s my companion.”

“You could’ve told me that your companion was a dog.”

“What do you mean? Everyone knows Sam’s a dog. What else would she possibly be?”

Dean almost laughed at Castiel’s naivete. He twisted his mouth and raised his eyebrows suggestively until Castiel got it.  And there was no doubt that Castiel did get it, because the tips of his ears, jutting out between shocks of dark, neglected hair, turned bright red. “No, it’s just me and Sam,” he mumbled.  “Me and my dog.”

“I see.”  Dean gave Sam one last pat on the head before he stood up and wiped his hands on the back of his jeans.  He felt a chill, looked briefly around the room.  “Wanna throw another log on the fire?”

Castiel did.  He went to the fireplace in the main living area and knocked the ash off of the logs with an iron poker, revealing bright, hot embers. He adjusted the damper, threw a couple pieces of chopped wood in.  “Give it a few minutes,” he said.  “I need to excuse myself briefly, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, okay, sure.” Dean nodded, held his hands out toward the growing fire, rubbed them together to warm them.  

“Please help yourself to something to drink. There’s beer in the refrigerator, and some snacks in the cupboard if you’re hungry,” Castiel offered.

Dean shrugged.  “We’ve got pie.”

Castiel pointed to the kitchen cabinets. “Plates and utensils are all in there, if you need them.”

“Thanks buddy.”  Dean stood still in the middle of the room until Castiel disappeared into the bathroom. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said aloud as he grabbed a beer from the fridge, opened the bottle with a twist of his wrist, then began to rummage through Castiel’s kitchen cabinets, ostensibly in search of a plate. He didn’t find what he was looking for, but he did find cookies.  Boxes and bags and plastic containers filled with all kinds of cookies.  

“He sure does have a sweet tooth.” Dean said it out loud again, this time directing his comments to Sam the dog.  After seeing the assortment of cookies, he changed his mind about the pie.  “When in Rome,” he grumbled, grabbed a bag from the cabinet, collected his beer, and flopped down on the quilt-covered sofa. 

Whatever Castiel was doing in the bathroom was taking a long time.  Sam jumped up on the sofa and laid down beside Dean, her head resting on his thigh. He pet her steadily while he looked around the room, assessing.  Dean didn’t think it could have been more basic.  A couch, a chair, a table, a lamp, a larger table in the kitchen with two side chairs.  The walls, paneled in horizontal wood boards, were bare.  A solitary clock sat on one side of the oversized fireplace mantel, the rest of the shelf empty.  There was an absence of anything Dean would consider personal, or even decorative.  No photographs, no paintings on the wall, no rugs on the floor.  And there was no television set.  Dean was sure that the Amish were more self-indulgent. How on earth had Castiel been living like this? 

Dean heard the bathroom door open as he shoved the last cookie into his mouth, and when he looked up, he nearly choked. He coughed, then swallowed and chugged from his beer before he was able to properly speak.

“Whoa, Cas, what did you do, man?”

Castiel slid his open palm up and down his cheek, squinted at Dean.  “I shaved.”

“I see that.”  The nod of his head was exaggerated, suggested an understanding he did not yet have.  “But why? I mean, you said it kept you warm.”  And then it struck him that he had told Castiel he didn’t like it, that it made him uncomfortable, and for the first time since finding Castiel, Dean thought that maybe he hadn’t ever lost him.

“Hey, you didn’t do that for me now did you? Just because I…”

“No, no, no.”  Castiel cut him off.  “It was getting itchy, and I, I was going to do it anyway.”

“Huh.” Dean felt lighter, inanely uplifted by the subtle gesture.  True or not, Dean decided to believe that Castiel shaved for him.

“Did you eat them all?”  Castiel frowned, gestured at Dean’s hand. “You ate _all_ of the Oreos?”

Dean glanced at the empty bag he still held. “Yeah, sorry buddy. Seems you can’t just eat a dozen, am I right?  Anyway, you’ve got tons of other cookies in there.”

“Not Oreos.”

“No, not Oreos.”  And just like that, Dean felt once again the villain. The guy who kicked the fallen angel out of the bunker, failed to protect him for years, then ate all of his Oreos. There’s a special place in hell for men like Dean Winchester.  

“But hey, we have pie.  You want some pie?”

Castiel shrugged.  “I don’t eat pie.”

“What?  Really?  I had no idea you didn’t like pie.  I mean, you used to…”

“I didn’t say I don’t _like_ pie.”

“Oh.” 

Castiel looked around awkwardly.  “Would you care for some coffee? Or hot chocolate?”

“Hot chocolate?  That sounds great Cas, I haven’t had that in a million years. You know what’s great in hot chocolate?  Marshmallows. Please tell me you have marshmallows.”  Dean was pretty sure he had seen some while pouring through Castiel's cabinets.

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Of course I have marshmallows.” He produced the bag from the cupboard and tossed it on the small table with an exasperated huff.

Dean tried not to laugh at how offended Castiel became at the suggestion that he would offer hot chocolate without marshmallows. He felt badly for eating all of the Oreos, which were evidently Castiel’s favorite, and it was with thoughts of marshmallows and atonement that he came up with what had to be the best idea he’d had in years.

“I’ll be right back,” Dean told Castiel, then ran out to the Impala, ransacked his duffel bag until he found what he needed, and returned to Castiel, who had not moved an inch.  He dropped two chocolate candy bars on the table while reaching into the cabinet and fetching a box of graham crackers.

“Have you ever had s’mores Cas?”

Castiel shook his head, questioning. “I don’t know what that is. I don’t think so.”

“Oh, you're gonna love these, buddy.”

Dean’s excitement grew with each step of the process. Castiel was interested when Dean showed him how to lightly brown marshmallows over the fire, but when Dean dropped the hot, roasted blob onto the graham cracker and chocolate, Castiel was nothing less than enthralled, his eyes riveted to the creation Dean held in his hand. 

“What now Dean?” 

“And now, you just bite it.” Dean held it up to Castiel’s mouth and Castiel did as he was told.

“Mmmmm.”  Castiel’s eyes closed when he made the sound.  The melted chocolate and marshmallow oozed from the sides of the crackers, and Dean caught it with his finger so as not to waste a sweet drop.  He offered it to Castiel as absently as Castiel accepted it by licking Dean’s finger clean, making that same sound once again, and it was the vibration of that hum, the gentle pull of suction on his finger, that jolted him back into the real world. Dean recoiled, pulling away sharply and stumbling backwards.  He lowered his head and cleared his throat. 

“I, I’m sorry.” 

Dean looked up when he heard the words. It was obvious by Castiel’s confused tone and dazed expression that he was uncertain what his apology was for, yet it was nonetheless sincere.  The rest of the s’more fell to the ground by Castiel’s feet.

“No, Cas, you didn’t do anything…” Dean stopped when Sam the dog knocked into his leg as she ran past him to lap up the gooey mess on the floor.

“No, Sam, don’t!  Castiel scolded the animal, tried to push her away with his foot, but it was too late.   She sat back on her haunches and looked up at Castiel with big brown eyes and the closest thing Dean had ever seen to a smile on a dog. 

“Oh no.”  Castiel ran one hand through his hair, clutched a handful of it. “Oh no.  She ate it.  What should I do?  What should I do?”  His chest heaved in and out while he looked back and forth.

Dean was confounded.  He had never witnessed this before.  Castiel, who turned his back on all of Heaven to do what was right, who fought against the Apocalypse and faced Lucifer with barely a blink of the eye, who had been to Heaven and Hell and everywhere in between, was panicked. 

“It’s no big deal.  We can make more.  Not a problem.”

Castiel shook his head, fell to his knees beside Sam. “She can’t eat chocolate. Chocolate is poison to dogs.”

“She’s never had chocolate?”

“Of course she’s never had chocolate. She’s a dog.”

“Okay, I’m sorry.  I didn’t know.”  Dean hunkered down on the other side of Sam, petted her.  “She seems fine.  There really wasn’t much chocolate in it.”

Castiel took a few deep breaths then nodded. “Yes, yes.  I think you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.”  Dean assured him further. “Look at her.  She’s perfectly fine.”

Castiel ran his hand along the length of Sam’s back several times, each stroke gradually calming Castiel.  “I worry about her,” he said.

“Yeah.  I get it.”  Dean watched his friend. “She’s your companion.”

It was not until Dean was close, his face only inches away from Castiel’s, that he saw the marks there.  One on his cheek in front of his ear. Another longer one along his jaw line, ending right under the cleft of his chin.  There were at least two on his forehead, a barely visible line that interrupted his left eyebrow and a smaller but thicker pinkish one close to his hairline, both previously hidden by tufts of Castiel's uncombed hair. 

Dean jumped up. “This is exactly why you shoudn’t be hunting.” He was inexplicably angry about what had become of his angel’s face.

“What’s wrong Dean?” Castiel rose to his feet.

“Your face.  What the hell happened to your face?” 

“Oh.”  Castiel touched the scar on his cheek.  “I forget they’re there sometimes.  They’re not from hunting.”

“Well then what are they from?  And I’m not buying another baking mishap.”

“No.”  Castiel dropped his chin to his chest, turned slightly away from Dean.

Castiel was reluctant.  Whatever it was, he clearly didn’t want to talk about it, but Dean wanted to know.  He needed to know.  Dean reached out and cupped Castiel’s jaw in one hand.  “What happened, Cas?” He asked it softly, kindly, his anger replaced with concern.  His thumb swept across the dimple of Castiel’s chin.  “Please tell me.”

Castiel looked up at him, eyes shiny, big. “Fight.”

“With what?  I thought you said they weren’t from hunting?”

“With humans.  In bars.”

“These are from a bar fight?”

“More than one, yes.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know.  Many.”

“How many?”

“I said I don’t know!”  Castiel snapped, his voice slightly raised, and Dean blinked at him, closemouthed.

“I’m sorry.”  He cast his eyes down, fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. “After I left the bunker, I was…” He stopped, met Dean’s eyes with his.  “I would prefer not to talk about this, if that’s all right.”

Dean chewed his bottom lip, thinking.  “It’s fine, Cas.  Whatever you want.”

It wasn’t fine, but he wouldn't press him and risk pushing him further away.  What he wanted, goddamn _yearned_ for, was to wrap his arms around Castiel, tell him that whatever he did, whatever had happened, didn’t matter and that he was safe from now on, because Dean wouldn’t let anything bad happen to him ever again.  But he said and did nothing, and they both stood wordless for too many moments.

Castiel broke the silence between them. “You said you had a lot to tell me.”

He did. That was why they were here. Dean wished he could set it aside, forget about that for now because he didn’t want to talk about himself and Sam, he wanted to find out more about Castiel, how he went from bar fights to baking burns, how he ended up here, on a mountain outside of this small town, acting as their self-appointed guardian.  Why he never came back to the bunker.  But first, he owed Castiel some truth.

“How about we make some more s’mores and I tell you the story of a stupid and desperate man.”

“That man is you?”

Dean nodded.  “Yes, yes he is.”

They sat on the wood plank floor by the hearth. Castiel toasted marshmallow after marshmallow over the flames while Dean spoke.  He told Castiel things he should have told him years ago, things he had never wanted to keep from him to begin with, but did. 

"Sam is all right now?”  Castiel asked.  “He has recovered fully?”

“He’s better than ever,” Dean said. “And since the Angels are back in Heaven and the Demons are locked up in Hell, he went back to school, met a girl, and got hitched.”

“Well, then you made the right decisions,” Castiel concluded.

Dean kneaded his hands.  “Yeah.  I don’t know about that.”

“Is that everything?” Castiel asked him. “Is that everything you wanted me to know?”

Dean turned his head and gazed at Castiel. It was dark now, the sun having set not long ago.  The fire burned brightly, though, cast a flickering glow on Castiel’s face that reminded Dean of when he once trapped his best friend in a ring of flames. Dean tried to shake off those old regrets.  There were too many new ones to deal with, and instead he concentrated on Castiel’s face. Like his hands, Castiel’s face was different now. Flawed and imperfect. Vulnerable.  It took Dean’s breath away.

“Dean?” 

“Yes, Cas?”  Dean looked away when he realized he’d been staring, opened his mouth to apologize but stopped, deciding that turnabout was fair play.

“Was there something else?”

He inhaled deeply, nodded assuredly. “Yeah.” Dean licked his lips, stalled for one last moment to gather courage to say what he knew had to be said. Even though they were alone, he leaned in closer to Castiel, so he could say it privately, quietly.

“Cas, I…”

A yelp from across the room startled them both. They turned around and looked behind them to find Sam the dog lying by the front door, whimpering loudly.

“Oh no, Sam.”  Castiel crawled over to her, laid his hands on her, stroked her tawny hair gently.  “Please help me,” he begged.  “I can’t lose her.  I can’t lose Sam.”


	3. The Ones on His Body

Dean stood inside the doorway of Castiel’s bedroom, watching him.  Castiel sat on the bed next to Sam the dog, petting her tenderly while she slept curled up by his side, her snout tucked under his hip.  Dean came to tell him that dinner was ready, that he had managed to come up with a meal that looked pretty damn good and smelled even better despite the paltry offerings in Castiel’s pantry, but when he saw them, his mind wandered away from its original mission and he stood mute instead.

Castiel had been human for little more than three years, yet he loved this companion – his dog – with an intensity that many people never manage to muster in an entire lifetime.  _Too much heart_.  Samandriel had told him that was Castiel’s “problem.”  It may have been a problem for an angel, but for a human, it was a gift, and Dean couldn’t help but wonder _what if_. What if he hadn’t kicked Castiel out of the bunker, what if he had found Castiel years ago and brought him home, what if _he_ had been Castiel’s companion?  What if the affection Castiel gave so freely to this dog had been given to him instead?

Dean shook his head in an effort to clear away those thoughts.  What’s done is done, and Castiel seemed rather content with the interim life he had created for himself.

“How is she?”  Dean slid his hands into his front pockets, leaned against the doorframe on one hip. 

“Good.  Better now.”  Castiel kept his voice low.  “Thank you, Dean. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been here.”

“It was nothing.  She still would’ve been okay, I bet.” 

Dean had concluded that Sam ate something she shouldn’t have, either the chocolate or something else, so he fed the dog a small amount of hydrogen peroxide, which Castiel kept in his well-stocked first aid kit, to force the dog to empty her stomach of everything she had recently consumed. It was messy, but effective, and when Sam was done vomiting and the culprit was determined to be an old sock, Castiel carried her to his bed and petted her to sleep.

“I made some food, if you want.” 

Castiel nodded, then removed himself from the bed slowly, carefully, so as not to disturb Sam.  He followed Dean into the kitchen, where the table was set for two.

“Those are nice.”  Castiel pointed to the candles Dean had lit and placed on the table for purposes of illumination only and definitely not because of the way the firelight made Castiel’s eyes glimmer.  “Muriel gave those to me for Christmas last year.”

“That was, uh, thoughtful of her,” Dean said.

Castiel shrugged as if he had never considered that.   “I never use them. I usually just turn the light on.”

Right. The overhead light.  Dean knew that Castiel’s mountain home was not without power.  He had seen the large propane tank on the side of the house when he arrived, assumed there was also a generator since the house was warm inside, the water was hot, and the refrigerator was cold.  

“Yeah, well they’re half burned down anyway,” Dean said, then bent over the table, his lips round and ready to blow the candles out, when he felt a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back.

“Leave them.  They’re nice.”

“Okay, then.”  Dean grinned, then pulled the chair out for Castiel. “Have a seat.“

Castiel did so, then turned to watch Dean, nodding his approval when Dean slipped a thick, quilted oven mitt over his hand before retrieving a cast iron skillet from inside the oven.  He set it on the table atop another oven mitt, since Castiel didn't have any trivets.

Castiel pulled his chair closer to the table. “It smells good.  What is it?”

“It’s a frittata.”

“A fri - what?”

“A frittata.”   Dean straightened his back, sat upright in the spindly chair.  “It’s kinda like an omelet on steroids. I just took what you had – potato, onion, cheese, bacon, some green leafy stuff you had in there that looked healthy, then threw in some seasoning, eggs and milk, and tada!  Frittata.”

"Frittata," Castiel repeated, enunciating each syllable distinctly.  "Well, I suspect I will enjoy it as much as I enjoy saying it.  Fri-tta-ta."

Dean sliced into it, beamed at Castiel as he dumped a wedge on his plate, then watched him anxiously while he brought a forkful of it to his mouth.

“Mmmm.” Castiel moaned, his mouth full.

“Yeah?” Satisfied that Castiel was sufficiently impressed, Dean turned his attention to his own plate.

“I didn’t know you had an interest in food preparation,” Castiel said between bites.

“Once we moved into the bunker, I found out that I really like cooking.  We have a great kitchen there, state of the art appliances circa nineteen forties.  Back when they made them to last.  I started making burgers and dad’s soup for Sam when he was there, then I kinda started to experiment, you know, get a little creative, and…” Dean bit his tongue instantly when Castiel's expression hardened, when he remembered that Castiel never had a chance to try Dean’s cooking because Dean sent him away with little more than a belly full of fast food burrito.

“I'm glad you've found something you enjoy doing.”

“Yeah, well it’s not so fun doing it alone.  Cooking for myself, that is.  Or a lot of other things, really, come to think of it.”

Castiel wanted to say something. Dean could tell by the way he stopped and looked up at Dean from across the table, his fork full of frittata at a standstill halfway between his plate and his mouth.  But he didn’t.  Instead he cleared his throat and shoved the food into his mouth, chewed it silently.

Suddenly it was awkward between them, and Dean didn’t know what to do to fix it, other than to make a joke.  “Me and rosy are closer than ever these days.”

Castiel jerked his head up.  “Who’s Rosy?”

Dean chuckled. “It’s a joke, Cas. Rosy palm.  It means my hand.”

He wasn't surprised that Castiel didn’t get it.  He lifted his brows, curled his lips up on one side. “ _My hand_ , Cas.  My closest relationship, these days, has been with _my hand_.”  Surely Castiel had pleasured himself at some point in the last three years. Unless, of course, the ladies in town saw to it that he never had to.  Dean didn’t like where this stream of thought was headed – to his memory of a version of Castiel that he had seen when Zachariah had messed with his head and sent him into the future.  The future was now, and this Castiel was far from the orgy-planning, drug-hazed, bitter, former angel he had encountered.  This Castiel was shy, and loving, and sweet, and isn’t that exactly what every woman wants?

“Oh,” Castiel finally said, followed by “ _Oh!_ ” and what sounded like an embarrassed snort.  Dean was just happy to be pulled away from what was going on in his head, except that now he was thinking other thoughts.

“You get used to it,” Castiel said.

“What?”

“Being alone.  You get used to it after a while.”

“Huh. Well maybe I should get a companion too."

"Like a dog?"

"Yeah, sure."  Dean crimped his lips together. This beating around the bush stuff was exhausting.  "A dog.  Or something.”

Castiel's head bobbed with enthusiasm.  “I highly recommend it.   The dogs have many times been a great comfort to me.”

“Dogs? You got another one?”

“No, no. Just the one.”

“Well I’ll keep that in mind.  Why’d you name her Sam, anyway?”  Dean asked the question casually, as if it hadn’t been on his mind since he first got there.  He wanted to know, but was afraid to know, why he would name his dog – his companion – Sam and not Dean.

Castiel shrugged with one shoulder.  “It’s nice to say the name, I suppose.  It reminds me of your brother when I do.”

“Uh huh.” Dean tried not to make a face, but he felt a bit like he’d just been slapped.

“He was my friend, Dean.”

“Oh, no. I get it.”  He did get it.  Castiel missed Sam.  Castiel wanted to be like Bobby.  It only made sense.  Neither one of them let him down.  Neither one of them pushed him away.  But that was then and this was now.  He was going to make it up to him.  They had the bunker and all of its resources and the rest of their lives to sort through whatever it was between them.  “Well the good news is you can come home now. And you can bring Sam.”

“What do you mean? I _am_ home.” Castiel put his fork down and straightened in his seat.

Dean huffed, gave his head a tiny shake.  “No, Cas. I mean home, home. To the bunker. Where you belong.”

“And when did you decide that?”

“Huh?” Dean was bewildered. He thought Castiel would be eager to return to the bunker.  He thought he would be as excited as he had been when they brought him there after the fiasco with the reaper.  He thought this was what Castiel would have wanted all this time.  It took him by complete surprise that instead, Castiel seemed _angry_.

“I’ve been there only twice.  Once as an angel and once as I am now.  The first time you refused to speak to me and the second time you asked me to leave after less than an hour.  Neither time was I made to feel welcome by you.  So please explain to me, Dean, when the bunker became my _home_?  Please enlighten me on how the bunker is the place where I belong, because I have been seeking the answer to that very question since before my grace was ripped out of me and I was forced to live as a human.”

Dean looked down at his plate, then pushed it away.  Suddenly he had no appetite.  Castiel’s words were like a kick in the gut, the truth of the reprimand cut through his core.  “Yeah, you’re right.” 

“Dean. I’m sorry, it’s these…”

“Don’t be.” Dean stopped him before he could say any more.  Castiel was not the one here who needed to explain himself.  Living a life with Castiel was _his_ dream, and clearly not Castiel’s. “It’s not up to me to decide where you belong. Only you can make that choice.  But I want you to know that even though I’ve been childish and immature, not to mention stupid, I’ve always thought of the bunker as _our_ home.  You, me, and Sam.” 

“Thank you.”   

Dean pushed himself away from the table.  “Are you finished?”  he asked Castiel and when Castiel nodded, he took his plate, along with his own, to the sink.

“I should probably get going.”  Dean’s back was to Castiel while he scraped the remaining food from his plate into the trash.  If he was leaving this place the same way he came – alone – he might as well do it now. He had almost told Castiel about the thoughts – no – the _feelings_ \- he’d been having about him.  He was grateful now that he didn’t.  At least he could leave with some of his dignity intact.   “Sammy’s expecting me at some point.”

Castiel got up and stood closely behind Dean.  He looked over Dean’s shoulder and out of the window over the sink. Dean looked too. He didn’t know exactly what Castiel saw out there, so he watched Castiel’s reflection in the window pane, tried to read his thoughts.  But human Castiel was no less difficult to decipher than the angel had been. Dean would have sold his soul in that moment to know what Castiel was thinking.

“You should stay.”  Castiel backed away from the window, from Dean, as he spoke.  “There’s a storm coming.  And it’s late.  You shouldn’t be driving.  These roads are quite hazardous.”

Dean angled his head in order to survey the night sky.  It was clear, the moon full and bright.  He saw no sign of impending bad weather. He turned around, leaned back against the sink.  “Are you sure? I don’t want to, you know, overstay my welcome.”

“Not possible.” He spoke offhandedly, without even looking at Dean. He then twisted the faucet handle, soaped up the sponge, and began to wash the dishes. 

Dean found a kitchen towel looped over the refrigerator door handle, took his place beside Castiel, prepared to dry.  “I suppose I could crash on the couch.”

“All right, then.  Good,” Castiel said, and they worked together, washing and dryng the rest of the dishes in silence.

When they were done, Dean followed his friend into the bedroom where he took a pillow from his bed and tossed it to Dean.  Castiel stopped at the bed, ran his hand over his sleeping dog’s body.

“You’ll make some lucky kid a good father, Cas.”

“A father?” Castiel paused, his head sloped, thinking.  “No. I don't see how that will be possible.”

Dean shrugged. “Why not?  You could always find yourself a nice girl like Sam did. Get married.  Spit out a few mini mes. I'm sure your friend Muriel would be down for that.  And she’s already done some of the heavy lifting with the kid thing, so, jackpot. Instant family.”

“Is that what you think I should do?”  Castiel's eyes bore into him, forcing Dean to divert his own before he said or did something he would probably regret.

“Well, it doesn't matter what _I_ think now, does it?”

“You brought it up,” Castiel pointed out, and Dean chastised himself again, asked himself when he would stop putting his foot in his mouth. “Do you think I should procreate with a woman?  With Muriel?  Is that what you want, Dean?”

“I’m gonna call Sam.” He did bring it up, but Dean's chosen course of action was to pretend he didn't and avoid this conversation altogether.  Castiel was not coming home with him, and he was going to have to accept that rather than poke at it every chance he got.  He dropped the pillow back on the bed as he stormed out of Castiel’s room.  He tapped Sam’s name on the phone in his hand, but when he couldn’t get a signal, he threw his jacket on and went outside. He wandered aimlessly around the snow-covered grounds surrounding the cabin, holding the cell phone up in the air.  He stopped when he heard a snap under his boot, saw broken sticks on the ground where he stood under a tree next to a nearby shed.  It wasn’t until he picked them up to examine them that he noticed they had been bound together to create a cross.

“What are you doing?”

Dean nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard Castiel speak from behind him. “Jesus Christ, Cas, warn a guy next time.”

“I wasn't sure where you went.” 

“Just trying to get a signal.”  Dean handed the twig cross to Castiel. “What’s this?  A cross? I think I stepped on it.  Broke it off at the bottom.”

Castiel took the cross, crouched down and screwed it back into the earth under the snow. “It’s fine Dean.” He rose, swiping his hands together to clean them.  “You may be able to get some reception over there, closer to the road.”  He pointed the way for Dean, then went back inside the small house.

Dean looked down at the cross, embedded once again in the ground by the tree, marking a small mound.  He stepped back quickly, tried to solve the puzzle in his head as he walked toward the road and called his brother.

 ______________________________

 

Dean found Castiel in his room, on his bed beside Sam, the comforter in a pile at the edge of the bed by his feet.  _He’s just sleeping,_ he knew, but he tiptoed in and checked anyway, because he had never been able to get the image of Castiel, dead at the hands of the reaper, out of his mind. 

Sam the dog stirred, then whined a little, and Castiel tossed his head from one side to the next.  Dean froze, afraid he would be caught, even though he was doing nothing wrong.  Castiel stopped moving, though, without ever opening his eyes, and satisfied that he was, indeed, alive, Dean gingerly pulled the comforter up and over Castiel's shoulder, then left the room as quietly as he had entered it.

He’d been outside talking with Sam longer than he had planned to be, but to be fair, he had a helluva lot to tell him.  While he was gone, Castiel had not only changed into flannel pajama pants and a thermal pullover, he had laid out the quilts and pillow on the sofa for Dean.

Dean tossed another log on the fire, then sat down on the couch and peeled off two of his three shirts.  He yanked at his boots until his feet were free of them, then removed his belt for comfort. He folded his clothes and belt, laid them atop the boots at the end of his makeshift bed.

As exhausted as he was, he was sure he would never be able to get any shuteye. He had so many questions, so much he still wanted to know, but all of the answers were asleep in the other room.  Castiel was closer than he had been in years, yet farther away than Dean had ever imagined he could be.  While considering the cruel irony of how finally finding his best friend would only make him miss him more, he fell asleep.

 ______________________________

 

It wasn’t yet morning when he opened his eyes and saw Castiel sitting quietly at the kitchen table, a glass of water in his hand.

“Hey, Cas.”  Dean pushed himself up and rubbed his eyes with his fists.  “I know the early bird gets the worm but it’s what?”  Dean glanced at the watch on his wrist. “Four a.m.?”

“I’m sorry to wake you,” Castiel said.  “I don’t - I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Dreams?” Dean knew all too well about the devastating effect dreaming could have on human beings.  “What did you dream about?”

“I had another companion once," Castiel began cautiously.  "Another dog.  Before Sam. He died, and the branches you stepped on, it was a cross that marked his grave.”

“I see.”  Of course.  It all made more sense now.  How upset Castiel was when he thought Sam the dog was sick, how protective he was over her. 

“He was my only friend for a long time.  I found him a few months after I left the bunker and in many ways, he saved me.  I cared very little for myself at the time, hence the bar fights, but having another life in my hands, something else to care for, grounded me.  It forced me to make a choice.  Live or die. I chose to live.  For him.”

Dean swallowed, tried to wet his dry lips with his tongue while he listened. Castiel was opening up to him, and he didn’t want to say the wrong thing again. “What was his name?” He expected that he knew the answer.  At least what he hoped, what he wanted with all of his heart, the answer to be.

“I called him Dean.”  Castiel said it with a low voice, like he didn’t want Dean to hear him.  “He was killed by a wolf.”

“Werewolf?”

“No. Just an ordinary wolf. It bit me, and Dean attacked it, but…” He trailed off, pressed his fingers against his temples.

“Headache?” Dean asked, and Castiel nodded.

“Come sit over here.”  Dean tapped the open space beside him.  “Let me see if I can help you with that.  I’ve picked up a few tricks.”

Castiel shuffled over in the darkness and sat down beside Dean. Dean folded his legs up and turned sideways on the sofa, his back against the large rolled arm.  He fluffed the pillow then placed it on his lap.

“Put your head here,” he told Castiel.  Castiel’s brow furrowed, as it always did when he didn’t quite understand something Dean was saying or doing, but Dean just patted the pillow for clarity. 

Castiel slid back and down on the couch, pulling his feet up as he rested his head on Dean’s cushioned lap.  Dean pressed his open palm to Castiel’s forehead, then slid it up, pushing his too-long hair away from his face while Castiel looked up at him.

“It’s a stress headache.  From the nightmares.” Dean informed him.  “Close your eyes.” 

Castiel’s eyes closed as Dean’s fingers pressed tiny circles against either side of Castiel’s head, starting at his temples and moving up along his hair line. He slid his hands under Castiel’s head, found the base of his skull and applied firm pressure there, pushing and then gently pulling his head back.

Castiel moaned faintly and Dean smiled.  “Better?”

“Yes. Very much so.”

“You’re wound up pretty damn tight.”

Castiel groaned again.

“Did it leave a mark?”  Dean continued the massage. “The wolf?” 

“Mmm hmm.”  Castiel pointed to his right side.

“Can I see it?”  Dean asked, and sensing Castiel’s reluctance he added “please.” 

Castiel took a deep breath and opened his eyes.  He slowly pushed up his shirt, exposing himself. Dean choked down a gasp.  It was dark, the only light provided by the fireplace, but it was enough to see that Castiel’s body was covered with scars, the one left by the wolf bite the most inconsequential of all.  There were diagonal lines across his belly, through the Enochian tattoo.  One thick, long, vertical line ran down the center of his chest while smaller ones criss-crossed each other haphazardly on his torso. The wounds that left these marks were deliberate, measured, precise.  Dean knew not only how to create each and every one, he knew what instrument was used and how much pain Castiel had endured. It made him feel sick.

“Take it off,” he ordered Castiel.

“Dean. It doesn’t make any…”

“Please let me see,” Dean amended, and Castiel sat up and complied. His back was to Dean, and Dean saw that the skin there was similarly damaged.

Dean wiped his hand across his mouth.  “Who did this to you?”

“It was my own fault.”

“Who tortured you?  The angels? Did angels do this?”

Castiel turned around to face Dean.  “I was a very weak human.  I’m stronger now, but back then I was weak, both physically and mentally.”

“Tell me what happened to you.”

Castiel sighed, then nodded.  “When Dean died – my dog Dean – I was distraught.  Emotions were still new to me, and I had not yet learned to control them.  Despite what I knew, I prayed, hoping that an honorable angel would answer the desperate prayer of a human begging for nothing more than a miracle for his dog. It was foolish, I know, but at that time, I would have done almost anything to bring Dean back.” 

“You got away.”

“Yes. After a number of days.” Castiel grinned. “They were angels, but not strategists.  They left an opening, and I took it.”

“This is my fault.”

“No, Dean, it isn’t.”

Dean’s hand darted toward Castiel, his fingertips grazing his chest. Castiel flinched at the touch, and Dean withdrew it immediately.

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to.”

For several moments, Castiel looked down at his own hands in his lap before he reached for Dean’s hand and brought it back to where it had been. 

“Are you sure?”  Dean asked.

“I want you to,” Castiel whispered, and Dean’s stomach fluttered as he moved his fingers slowly down along the line of the raised mark, as if he was reading it, learning the story it held.  When he reached the end of it, he moved to another one, and then another. He wanted to touch all of them, to feel everything that had happened to his angel, to know all the things that he should have protected him from, but didn’t.

Castiel closed his eyes.  He sat perfectly still, save an occasional tremble, while Dean’s fingers drifted from one mark to the next, exploring gently.  Castiel’s lips remained slightly parted, though silent, and once he had felt them all, Dean moved his other hand to Castiel’s face, laid it open along the line of his jaw, feeling the scar there as well.  When Castiel opened his eyes, Dean saw a possibility, a chance, an opening that had not been there before.  He leaned forward and kissed Castiel chastely once, then again, and the third time Dean felt him respond by parting his lips further, tilting his head slightly. 

“I don’t want you to procreate with Muriel,” Dean muttered.  Both of his hands held Castiel’s face now, their foreheads pressed together at the brow line.  “Fuck, that’s the last thing I want.”

Dean eased Castiel down onto his back, and although Castiel went willingly, he felt some resistance and drew back to look at him.

“Are you sure?” Castiel blinked at him, echoed his words back to him, and Dean realized that his friend's hesitation was not _about_ Dean, but _for_ Dean.

“I’ve been sure for a while now,” Dean said, and that earned him a smile from the man beneath him.

Dean bent over and met Castiel’s mouth with his.  While he pushed his tongue past Castiel’s lips, he pressed his open hand between Castiel’s legs, let it rest there while Castiel twitched and grew harder in his palm. 

Castiel watched him earnestly, expectant and nervous about what was to come, and Dean knew at that moment that despite everthing he had been through in the last three years, this Castiel, _his_ Castiel, was still, in every way that mattered, an innocent.

Dean laid kisses along Castiel’s neck, along his collarbone, down his body. He nudged Castiel’s thighs apart and settled there, slowly eased Castiel’s flannel pajama pants down. A smug grin drew across his face when he discovered that he wore nothing under them.

Castiel’s breaths quickened when Dean took hold of him, wrapping his hand around the base of his flesh, sliding his tongue along the length of it.

“Has anyone ever done this for you?”  He stopped only long enough to ask the question, and with one hand clutching the quilt underneath them, the other sinking into Dean’s hair, Castiel shook his head.  Dean wasn’t sure if Castiel was unable or unwilling to speak, but either one was acceptable to him.

Dean grinned again, pleased that he would be the one to do this for him, to give him this. “Well, you’re in for a treat,” he promised, then licked his lips to wet them, leaned back in, and swallowed him down.

Castiel broke his silence then, jerked upward and called out for Dean.  Dean grabbed loosely onto Castiel’s hip, calming him. With his other hand, he found Castiel’s free hand, wove their fingers together, and held onto him tightly.  


	4. The Ones that Can’t Be Seen

Castiel snored.

And it didn’t bother Dean in the least.  It wasn’t the raucous, wake-the-dead, freight-train-is-coming kind of snore, anyway. It was more of a shallow, resounding, rumble with the cadence of falling rain, which Dean found, in many ways, comforting.

Even so, he had to admit, it was _different_ waking up in the same bed with someone capable of making such masculine sounds. Sure, it had happened once before, after a successful vampire hunt in Texas a few years back, when he accidentally passed out drunk in the wrong bed in the wrong room in the wrong motel. He doesn’t talk about that, though.  But this time, there were no mistakes.  This time, he had made a deliberate choice.

Something else was different too. With Castiel, he didn’t feel the need to elbow his bed partner awake in order to nonchalantly suggest one more go around before he rolled out of town.  When he watched Castiel as he slept, he felt warm inside.  He wanted to let him sleep and feed him breakfast and do whatever it took to make him smile.

Besides, Castiel was spent.  After the couch, a groggily sated Castiel suggested they move to the bed to sleep, but once they got there, he sidled up to Dean and fumbled his way into Dean’s boxers. Peeking up at him with half-lidded eyes, Castiel asked “may I try?” then gave him what was, quite unexpectedly, the most unhurried and pleasurable hand job he had ever been given. Not that it was technically impressive.  Or even particularly imaginative.  Dean suspected that his enjoyment of it had more to do with _who_ was doing it than how it was done, and that was something he wasn’t used to.

He would have been perfectly content to just lie next to Castiel until he woke. There were worse things to do than stare at Castiel’s long, straight eyelashes, or his chapped, pink lips. But his bladder had other ideas, so he cautiously slid out from under the covers and pulled on his pants.

His plan was to go back to bed when he was done, but Sam was waiting for him, sitting right outside the bathroom door, her tongue hanging out, tail sweeping the floor.

“Okay, okay, Sammy.  I’ll take you outside girl.”

Dean put on his jacket and boots and took the dog outside.  It was cold, snowing, but there was no sign of the storm Castiel had predicted and Dean chuckled to himself.  Castiel _wanted_ Dean to stay; apparently Castiel had learned the value of a good fib after all. He grabbed his duffel bag from the car, then wrapped his arms around himself and waited while Sam ran from tree to tree, then over to the shed.

Dean followed him to the windowless, ramshackle, flat-roofed structure set back behind Castiel’s cabin. The twin barn doors were secured by a lock, so Dean automatically felt around his jacket for his lock-pick set but once he found it, he decided against the invasion of privacy.  He picked up his duffel bag, called to Sam, and returned to the house.

Dean poked at the logs in the fireplace and added some wood to the fire. He unzipped his duffel bag and found his notebook on top of his folded clothes.  He took it out, flipped through the pages. He wouldn’t have to get another one after all.

With a pencil he dug out from the bag’s side compartment, he sat down on the couch, his legs crossed in front of him.  There were only two pages left.  He might as well complete this journal.  Unlike the one his father left him, this one would have a happy ending.

He licked the tip of the lead and grinned.  _I found Cas_ , he scribbled, and that was all he had intended to do.  But there were two more pages to fill, and a whole lot more to say, and before he knew it, he was writing things he had never, ever written down before.

______________________________

 

Dean had used nearly all of Castiel’s eggs in last night’s dinner, but there were enough left to make a batter for pancakes. He was standing at the stove, working on the second batch, when Castiel ambled out of the bedroom, his bare feet making a scraping noise as they scuffled along the wood floor, his hair spiking out from his head in various directions.

“Hello, Dean,” he croaked.

“Well look who’s finally up,” Dean teased.  “I already took Sam out.”

“Thank you.”  Castiel yawned, scratched at his neck.  “That smells good.  I’m very hungry.”

Dean scooped up two pancakes with the spatula and flipped them onto a plate, shoved it at Castiel.  “You have good timing. Here ya go.”

Castiel sat down at the table.  Dean turned off the stove and joined him, and they ate quietly together for several minutes.

“So.”  Dean’s mouth was full of his last bite of pancake when he finally spoke. “Last night.”

Castiel’s skin flushed along his cheeks and he looked down at his plate.  “Yes. Last night.”

“Was everything, uh, copacetic?”  Dean raised his brows and waited for an answer.

Castiel dipped his chin, eyes still on Dean. “Yes, thank you. And for you?”

“Same, same.  And, uh, thank you, I guess, too.  For, uh, you know.”

Castiel nodded shyly.  “Dean, you should know that I’ve not…I haven’t really… ”

“What, Cas?”

“Engaged in sexual relations.  Not since the reaper.”

“Not at all?”  Dean asked.  “Shit, I nearly forgot.  I made coffee. You want coffee?”

“Yes, please,” Castiel said as Dean stood. “And no.  Almost.  But no.”

“I’m guessing you like cream and sugar?”

“Yes,” Castiel said.  “Lots of both.”

Dean poured a cup of coffee for Castiel and one for himself. “You’re a pretty good-looking guy.  And it’s obvious that your friend Muriel would jump the minute you called.”

“Muriel has made me aware of her affections.”

“She did?”

“Yes.  With something called mistletoe.  Apparently during the holidays, it is a _tradition_ to kiss _whoever_ it is you are standing with under the hanging plant.”   Castiel used finger quotes with the words _tradition_ and _whoever_ , and it made Dean laugh out loud, reminded him that Castiel’s people skills were still lacking.

“That is true,” Dean said.

“Not entirely.  For example, if you are under the mistletoe with another man, it is apparently _not_ traditional to kiss that man.”

Dean snorted into his coffee and had to pull his cup away to avoid spilling.  “Yep, yep. That is an exception to the tradition.” 

Castiel palmed his forehead, shook his head. “There’s still so much I don’t know.  So much that doesn’t make sense.”

“So Muriel kissed you?  What was that like?”

“Soft.  Squishy.  Adequate.”

“Huh.  I’ve gotta ask.  You’ve had opportunities.  Any particular reason you haven’t, uh, you know?”

Castiel pushed the last bits of syrup drenched pancake around on his plate with his fork.  “What happened with the reaper – with April – bewildered me. Before she stabbed me, I couldn’t believe that what we had just done was the very thing that has driven mankind to engage in war and creativity with equal passion.  I did not see how, throughout history, mankind has been willing to kill and be killed for it. The whole thing was… underwhelming.  But...”

“But?” Dean listened while he prepared Castiel’s coffee the way Castiel liked it.

“I feel differently this morning.”

Dean set a mug down on the table next to Castiel and sat back down in his seat across the table with his own cup. “That’s good.  Because there’s a few more things I wouldn’t mind showing you.  If you want.”

“Now?”  Castiel asked.

Dean shrugged, blowing on and then sipping his coffee. He didn’t want to be pushy. “Well, you know. Whenever.”

“All right.”  Castiel scratched his head, took a long, loud slurp from his coffee then wiped his mouth with his hand.  He squeezed his shoulders together and sipped again, looking around the room as if seeing it for the first time, then placed his mug down on the table and pushed it aside. “Now is good for me, though.”

Dean’s lips curled up slowly.  “Yeah, me too.”

 ______________________________

 

There was a window in Castiel’s bedroom that faced the East. It caught the light of the rising sun, which had woken Dean earlier that morning.  Castiel had no shades or curtains or coverings of any type on any of the cabin windows, and as he lay on the bed, Dean spotted the sun, now high in the sky, peeking through the clouded treetops. The snow was falling heavier than it had been when he’d gone outside with Sam, and he found himself captivated, watching it.  With Castiel by his side, he couldn’t think of a reason to ever move from this bed.

“Dean?”  Castiel was lying on his stomach, still partially on top of Dean.

“Yeah, Tiger?”

Castiel raised his head, brows crinkled, and Dean grinned, realizing immediately that he didn’t understand the metaphor.

“Are we done?” Castiel asked.

“Done?”

“I’m referring to the sexual activity. Was that everything you wanted to show me?”

Once they made their way back into the bedroom after breakfast, Castiel quickly stripped off his pajamas, and climbed into the bed on top of Dean, positioning himself carefully, belly to belly. When he began to grind into Dean, Dean pushed his hand between their hips, closed it around both of them, and provided the friction they desperately needed.  He pumped steadily, intently, until Castiel raised his shoulders and stiffened, eyes closed, lips parted, coming in the cradle of Dean’s fist. The sight and sounds of his friend in climax was enough to finish him immediately after.

“No, Cas.”  Dean’s fingers played along the ridges of Castiel’s spine. “There’s plenty more. We’ll take it slow.”

“Slow?” Dean wasn’t certain if Castiel was puzzled or disappointed.

“Slow-ish,” Dean revised, pecked Castiel on the lips. “Sound good?”

“All right.”  Castiel returned his head to the nook of Dean’s neck and Dean buried his nose in his hair, breathing him in.  Even his scent was different now that he was human, and Dean liked it, couldn’t get enough of it.

“Do you ever think about your grace?” Dean asked him.

Castiel slid off of Dean, rolled onto his side. “Less and less.”

“You miss it?”

“Yes.”

Dean nodded, then pushed himself up onto his flank so he could be face to face with his friend.  “How did he do it?  You never told me how Metatron took your grace.”

"It happened in Heaven." Castiel swallowed hard, pointed to his neck.  Dean put his hand there but drew it back quickly when Castiel winced.  “I was immobilized, bound to a chair.  He slit my throat with an angel blade and drew it out, then healed me and sent me back to earth.”

“I’m sorry, Cas.”  Dean reached for him again, slowly this time, and brushed his fingers lightly against Castiel’s throat.  “Here?” he asked, and Castiel adjusted his neck, then placed his hand over Dean’s and guided his fingers along the exact spot. 

When Castiel let go of his hand, Dean replaced his fingers with his lips and kissed him there, across the imaginary line, a mark that could not be seen.  Dean was beginning to understand that not all of Castiel’s scars were on his skin.

“I’ll try to get it back for you, if you want,” Dean said lowly.  “There are still some angels around who could - ”

Castiel cut him off.  “No, Dean.  I don’t want it back.”

Dean looked at him, questioning. 

“I’ve changed.  Being human has changed me in ways that make it impossible to go back.”

"What do you mean?”

“I don’t think the same way anymore.  I don't want the same things anymore. I feel differently now, I, I _feel_ now, and I…” the words trailed off, the thought left unsaid as Castiel’s eyes dropped.  

Dean couldn’t quite tell if Castiel was bitter or relieved about his resignation, but he sensed it was both.

“Besides,” Castiel said after several moments. “The only thing I truly miss is hearing your prayers.”

Dean smiled, genuinely happy.  No longer being able to reach Castiel through prayer had left it's own hole in his heart.  He had never realized, until it was gone, how important it had been to him, how much he sometimes needed to have Castiel hear him, even when the Angel couldn’t respond.  But that hole was about to be filled in the best way possible.  “Well, you’ll be hearing me plenty when we’re back at the bunker.”

Castiel tensed.  “The bunker?”

“Home.  You’re coming home with me now, right?”

“I - I told you, the bunker is not my home.”

“Yeah, but that was before.  Now that we’re,” Dean waved his hand between them. “You know, doing this, you’re coming back with me, right?”

“Doing this?”  Castiel asked, mimicking Dean’s hand gesture.

“I mean now that we’re, uh, you know, we're… c'mon, man. You have to come back now.”

“Are you referring to the sexual activity?” Castiel narrowed his eyes. “You think I have to come back to the bunker with you because you gave me sex?”

“No, no.  Not because I gave you…I didn’t ‘give you sex’, Cas. It’s something we did together.”

“But that’s the reason?  You think that because of this sex I should, I have to…” Castiel’s eyes flitted around the room as he crossed his arms over his stomach, worried his bottom lip.

“No.  Well, yes. I mean no.” Dean knew he was doing a shitty job of explaining himself, but the words just weren’t coming. “I just thought you would’ve changed your mind, because, well, you know.” 

“I see,” Castiel said in a way that made it clear that he didn’t see.  “Dean, I am not going back with you.  I will not leave here.”

“You’re still pissed at me.”  Dean pulled himself up and leaned back against the headboard.  “You won’t come because you’re still pissed at me.”

Castiel shook his head.  “There’s more to it than that.”

“Aha, you didn’t deny it.  You _are_ still pissed at me.”

“I understand what you did and why. I told you that. That’s not why I will not go live in the bunker.”

“But you’re still pissed.”

“I don’t want to be.  What you’ve told me, I’m glad I know now, but it doesn’t make what I've felt all this time simply go away.  I spent three years believing that you didn't want me once I was human because I was no longer of use to you.  For three years I have believed that after all we had been through together, after everything I had given up, that I was nothing more than a burden to you without my powers.”

“That's not true Cas.  None of that is true.  The Angel told me – “

“Yes, I know.  Still, it wasn’t a difficult decision for you.  It certainly didn’t seem that way that night.”

“It was a fucking impossible decision."  He didn't want to argue about this because he knew Castiel wasn't wrong.  Sam came first.  Sam came before everyone and everything and Dean had done what the Angel in Sam had told him to do without resistance.  

"I'm not saying that it shouldn't be that way.  I'm just stating facts."

"I thought - I hoped - you would be okay.“  Dean faltered, his voice thin, muffled.

“Regardless, I wasn’t good at being human.  I’d just been killed because of my own stupidity. Because of a desperate and foolish human desire to not be alone.  And you have no idea, Dean.  You have no idea how hard it was.  The things I did, the things that…” Castiel closed his eyes, squeezed his mouth shut.  

Dean wasn’t sure what to do.  He wanted to fold himself around Castiel and pretend the last three years never happened.  He wanted to scream and yell at him that he must have been blind to think those things, to not see how Dean felt about him. He wanted to jump in his car and drive away because Castiel deserved so much better than him.

Dean laid his hand on Castiel’s shoulder. The touch was tentative but Castiel allowed it.  “What happened after you left the bunker?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yes.  I do.”

Castiel peered up at Dean, then pushed himself up, sat cross-legged on the bed facing Dean.

“I didn’t comprehend what I was feeling, but it hurt. The intensity of it was almost paralyzing. I wanted the pain to go away. To that end, I did the only thing I knew to do. I drank.”

“I’m sorry.”  Dean lowered his eyes.  “You learned that from me.”

“But drinking wasn’t always enough. It dulled the pain, sometimes, but other times, it made all of these… emotions… even more unbearable. So I used narcotics as well.”

Dean’s head snapped up, jaw dropped. “Jesus, Cas, drugs? Seriously?  Drugs?  What kind of drugs?”

Castiel shrugged.  “Whatever I could find.  Whatever I could get.  Whatever someone was willing to give me.  I wasn’t very particular about it.”

“How did you get money?”

“I didn’t have money.”

“Then how did you pay for…” Dean abandoned the question mid-sentence as he pushed visions of the future Castiel he had seen years ago out of his head.  This Castiel was not the same.  This Castiel was naïve, pure of heart.  Even so, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to know the answer. 

“I didn’t need money for that.  People bought alcohol for me all the time. Mostly men.  Nearly always men.  And when they had it, the men from the bars seemed more than willing to provide narcotics as well.”

“Men?  Not women?  Huh.”  

“Many times there was no other choice for them. In some bars, there were no women at all.”

He felt selfishly relieved at the former angel's lack of guile when it came to certain subjects.  He shook his head, just barely, then began to explain.  “Yeah, Cas, those are…”  He glanced at Castiel and stopped. There was no need to get into that now.  He could explain another time.

“But it didn’t take me too long to figure out that for the most part, when people give you something, they want something in return. They think you owe them.”

“The fights?”

Castiel nodded.  “I made an effort to give them what they wanted. Mostly it was just company, and that was fine. I seemed to want company too. But sometimes they wanted more."

Dean gulped.  "More?"

Castiel pulled the comforter across his lap. "I didn’t care much about this body then. I reminded myself that you enjoyed such encounters with strangers, even sought them out on occasion, so I tried.  But still, I couldn’t do it.  My chest would constrict and tighten until I couldn’t breathe.  It often felt like I was being stabbed all over again.”

He wished that he had reacted differently back at the bunker when Castiel so matter-of-factly told him and Sam what the reaper had done. He should have confessed to him then how meaningless those encounters always were, how empty he felt after the glow of physical pleasure faded away.  He should have taken him aside and talked with him about what happened. But Sam was there, along with that angel inside him, and Dean was barely holding it together himself, raw still from seeing Castiel stabbed through the heart, from seeing the human death of the man who meant more to him than he was willing to admit at the time.  Instead he joked about it. He did nothing but laugh and encourage Castiel to do the same when all the while Castiel needed something very different from him.  So caught up in his increasingly complicated cluster of lies, he couldn't see the damage that had been done to Castiel, never even saw that he was struggling in his new skin.  As much as his friend had been through, as much as he had endured since he left, Dean’s gut was pummeled by the realization that leaving the bunker - and Dean - was probably the best thing that could have happened to Castiel.

“And then I found Dean.”  Castel sighed loudly, smiled.  “Or he found me.  I think we found each other, really.”

“People don’t always want something. You shouldn’t think that.”

“But it’s true, Dean.” 

“ _I_ don’t.”

Castiel's head tipped to one side and he squinted skeptically. “You want me to leave my home and come with you to the bunker.”

“No, Cas.  That’s, not…not because you owe me.”  Dean threw his head back against the headboard.  It landed with a loud crack, harder than expected. 

“I’m sorry, but Sam and I like it here.  The bunker bears no nostalgia for me.”  Castiel’s voice was gentle and mild, but that did nothing in Dean’s mind to temper the rejection he was handing out.  “In fact, the opposite is true.”

Dean twisted his mouth into an unpleasant smirk. “Yeah, well, whatever.”

“You are always welcome here, Dean.”

Castiel looked at him expectantly, but Dean had no idea what he was waiting for.  It’s not like the bunker was around the corner, Castiel was well aware of that.  Once he left here, he didn’t know when he would be back this way again.  And Castiel had no phone or computer or any civilized means of remaining in touch.  Castiel would be beyond his reach, and isn't that the way it has always been?   

“Like I said, whatever.”  Dean pursed his lips and looked away.  He tried.  He tried to apologize.  He tried to open up to him, to listen to him, to be with him.  He tried to love him, but Castiel wanted none of it.  Well, screw him.  “This was just another stop on my way to Sam’s.  Not like I was looking for any of this anyway.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Castiel’s eyes widen, his mouth fall open, and Dean bolted out of the bed, jaw locked.  He dressed quickly, and Castiel did the same.  Dean refused to look at him, _couldn't_ look at him.  Castiel quietly kept his distance, but Dean felt him follow him out of the bedroom and into the living room.  Dean grabbed his duffel bag from the couch, then bent down to pet Sam the dog.  

“Dean.” Castiel choked out only one word, but Dean still did not face him, afraid that he might change his mind, that he might once again put _his_ desire, _his_ need before Castiel's.  He wouldn't do that to him again.  He wouldn't force his way into Castiel's life.  It would be better this way, in the long run.  At least it would be better for Castiel, and that was the only thing that mattered.

“I guess I’ll see you around.”  Dean finally looked at Castiel once his jacket was on and his bag flung over his shoulder.  Castiel's face was red and blotchy, his eyes shiny and blue.  Too goddamn blue, so blue that Dean nearly caved in and dropped to his knees to beg Castiel to forgive him, to come home with him, to please, please find a way to love him.  But he didn't.  

“You’ve got my number? In case of emergency.”

Castiel nodded, tapped his finger to his temple.  “Yes.  But let me give you Muriel’s number.  In case you ever want to--”  

“No thanks.”  There was a finality in Dean's words that was almost cruel, hard to miss.  “Take care of yourself, okay Cas?  Sammy-dog too. If I’m ever back in town…”  Dean’s chin fell into his chest as he stumbled backwards, then turned away.

“All-all right," he heard Castiel stammer behind him.

Dean didn’t look back, even after he got into the Impala and pulled away.  He didn’t want to see Castiel standing by the door, in the cold, watching him go, or, even worse, see him _not_ standing there.  He felt the burn in the back of his throat, the pressure behind his eyes building and he kept on driving.  He couldn't stop yet.  He had to get away as quickly as possible.  But when his vision grew cloudy and he could no longer blink his eyes clear, he was left with no choice.  He pulled over somewhere near the bottom of the mountain, close to town.

Fucking Cas.  Goddamned son-of-a-bitch Castiel. 

He pounded the steering wheel with his open palms until he finally gave in, let his face fall into his hands, and cried.


	5. The Ones that Can Be Healed

He needed coffee.  And now that his head was clearer, he needed to think. Castiel may not want to live with him, but leaving town with no way to reach him, refusing Muriel’s number when he offered it, was a knee-jerk reaction that already he regretted.

The diner was more crowded than it had been yesterday, so he seated himself, sliding into the same booth he shared with Castiel little more than twenty-four hours ago. 

The waitress was also the same, her intuition spot-on as she approached him with a full pot of coffee in hand.

“Well hello again, sugar.”  She smiled at him, flipped over the upside down mug already on the table.  “It looks like you need a big ol’ cup of joe.”

Dean focused on the way the steam rose over the mug as she poured and nodded.  “Yes, I surely do.  Thanks.”

“So where’s Bobby today?”

“Bobby?”  Dean lifted his head, baffled at first.  For a split second he had forgotten Castiel’s alias. “Oh, Bobby.  Yeah, he’s uh, he’s home.  His home.  I’m just on my way out of town.”

“Already?” She frowned, wiped her free hand on her apron.  “Why so soon?”

“What?”

“Pardon me if I’m being too familiar, but you just don’t look like a man who’s all that keen on the idea of leaving.”

Dean huffed.  He looked back down at the coffee mug in his hands, rubbed them along the sides for warmth before taking a swig. “Yeah, well, I’ve got to get back home. Back to work.”

“Well that’s a crying shame,” she said. “Muriel seemed to think you’d be staying for a while.”

Muriel. Maybe he could talk to Muriel, get her number before he goes.  “Why is that?”

She shrugged.  “Don’t really know.  But we all hate Bobby being alone up there.  I know he has Sam, but it’s not the same.  He’s a loner, for sure, but I’m not convinced that’s completely by choice.  And sometimes he seems a little…” She stopped, shook her head.

“What?  He seems what?”

“Out of it.  Like he’s somewhere else.  Lost, might be the best way to put it.  He sometimes seems kinda lost, and I think…well, I think he could use some company. A friend.”

“He has friends here, doesn’t he?  Muriel?”

“I mean a _friend_ friend.”  She simpered, dropped her chin and peeked at Dean over her eyeglasses.  “Even Muriel knows she doesn’t have a snowball’s chance with that man.  He’s missing someone.  He’s been waiting for something, and when you turned up here with him, well, God’s honest truth, I was hoping it was you.”

“Huh.”  Dean clasped his hands together on the table in front of him. “Listen, Miss, uh…”

“Donna.”

“Donna, I’m Dean.  Look, Ca-“ Dean caught himself, shook his head. “ _Bobby_ is a big boy and he can take care of himself.”  It came out more harshly than he had meant it and he felt badly.  He was going to have to leave her an extra tip. 

She topped off his coffee before responding calmly.  “I never said he couldn’t.”

“Do you know where I can find Muriel? Bobby asked me to get something from her before I left.”

“Bobby had a dog named Dean.”

“Coincidence.”

“Hmm, I'll bet.”  She cocked an eyebrow at him, appraised him for several long moments, then checked the clock on the wall behind her.  “Well you’re in luck.  She has a bookshop down the street, but she’ll be in here for her afternoon coffee in about ten minutes.  She’s never late.”

“Great,” Dean said. “I’ll wait.”

“Can I get you some pie while you wait? You look like you could use some nice homemade pie with your coffee." 

Pie sounded pretty good.  Pie always sounded pretty good.  He never got to eat the pie he brought to Castiel’s place.  Now it will just be wasted, probably thrown away, since Castiel doesn’t like – no – doesn’t _want_ pie anymore.  So far Donna was batting about a thousand, so if she thought Dean could use some pie, then he could use some pie.

“Sure, Donna, that sounds great.  I’ll have whatever pie you think is right for me.”

“Well, we’re plumb out of humble.”  She met Dean's weary pout with her shrewd, friendly smile. “So a nice slice of peach is coming right up.”

 ______________________________

 

“So this is my number.  Here, let me.”  She took Dean’s phone from him and typed the information into his contact list. “I can’t believe Bobby forgot my number and you had to come all the way down here to get it.”

As Donna predicted, Muriel arrived right on time. Dean left a generous tip for the astute waitress before he left the diner with Muriel and walked back with her to the small bookstore.

“Nuts, right? Anyway, it’s not really a wasted trip.  I wanted to ask you a favor.”

“A favor?” Muriel was surprised but interested.

Dean nodded.  “I, uh, have to leave town, and I thought maybe you could keep an eye on him for me.”

“You’re leaving? Already?”

“I have to go. I was on my way to my brother’s and…yeah.”

“But you’ll be back? Soon?”

Dean shrugged uneasily. “I don’t know when I’ll be back. Or if.”

“Oh.”  She turned away from him and began straightening the books on the nearby shelf.  “Well, Bobby can manage for himself,” she snarled, and Dean took a step back.  He wasn’t sure what exactly he did to upset her, but he had.

“He can.  That’s true,” he agreed.  “But I was hoping I could call you once in a while.  Check-in, make sure he’s doing okay.  Maybe keep it just between us."

She grunted, shook her head. 

Dean sighed.  “Look, apparently I’ve said or done something wrong, but I’ve got nothing.  Can you help me out here?”

She spun back around briskly. “I thought you were his friend. From way back.”

“I am.  That’s why I want to check on…”

“I mean, I thought you were his…” she sighs, rests her hands on her hips.  “I’m sorry. I guess I made a mistake. I expected you to stay longer because I thought you were the one.” She leaned in closer to him, examined his face.

“What one?”

“From the pictures.”

“What pictures?”

“Mostly because of your eyes.”

Dean scrubbed his hand across his face self-consciously.  “I, uhm, got something in them earlier.  While I was driving.”

“They’re so green. Like leaves-on-a-tree green.”

Dean poked out his lips, made a face. “Uh, okay.”

“And you’re kind of freckly too.”

“It’s the Scottish blood. Is there a point here?”

She squinted at him, continued to scrutinize his face before her gaze traveled slowly down his body, ending at his boots.  It wasn’t easy for a stranger to make Dean Winchester uncomfortable, but Muriel was doing one helluva job.

“If you don’t want to help me…”

“Oh, I’ll help you.”  She cut him off, then stepped past him, gesturing behind her for him to follow her. “But first, let me show you something.”

She lead him into a back room, which appeared to be the storage room, and retrieved a large, rectangular, paper wrapped item from the corner.

“I’m going to have to re-wrap this,” she said as she tore through layers of plain brown paper to reveal a painting on stretched canvas. She rested it on the table, leaning up against the wall.

Dean’s mouth fell open as he took in the scene depicted.

“That’s you, isn’t it?” Muriel watched him while he stared at the painting.

“Where did you get this?”

“This is one of Bobby’s.”

Dean’s brow creased. “One of his what?”

“He’s an artist. You don’t even know that?”

It was a dig, he realized, meant to provoke, but he didn't take the bait.  He side-eyed her quickly then turned back to the painting.

“He paints angels, mostly,” she told him.   “Well, what he calls angels, anyway.  They sell very well. This one is headed to New York City.”

“Angels. He paints angels.” Dean mumbled in awe while he continued to study the canvas. 

“Yes, and people love angels.  Or at least the idea of them.  His interpretation of angels is quite unique, unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.  They don’t look like people with wings.  He calls it their true form.  It’s hard to describe. It’s a bit odd, really, not that I’m any kind of art expert.  But usually when he paints them, they’re more represented in the composition than specifically portrayed.  It’s like you know they’re there, you can _feel_ that they’re there, but you don’t necessarily see them. Like in this one. It’s not easy to see, but the angels are represented–“

“Here.” Dean pointed. “And here.”

“Yes, yes.  That’s exactly right.  Bobby has this belief, or I guess you could call it a theory, that angels are some kind of celestial lightwaves, or something like that.”

“Multidimensional wavelengths of celestial intent.”  Dean corrected her without looking away from the painting.

“Yes, that’s it. Then you have talked to him about it?”

"You could say that.”

“But you’ve never seen his work?”

“No, I…he didn’t do this before.  He must have started this when he got here.”

“Well, he’s got some God-given talent, that’s for sure.”

“Maybe,” Dean puffed.

“I’d say definitely.”

“No, I meant…” Dean began to explain that he was referring only to the improbability of talent being handed out by an MIA God, then thinks better of it.  “He is talented, isn’t he?  This is kind of, uh, well, it’s pretty awesome, really.”

“It is.“  Muriel laid a gentle hand on Dean’s arm, softened her voice.  “Dean, what happened to him?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s pretty obvious that he’s a survivor of some sort, that he’s been through something, has seen things that most people never have to.”  She tilted her head and examined the painting alongside Dean.  “I think painting is like therapy for him.  Whatever it was, whatever happened to him, at least he’s found a way to cope, to turn it into something beautiful by creating this elaborate, fantasy world of angels and heaven. Bobby’s not only talented, but he has an incredible mind. He says that each painting has a story, although he rarely shares it.”

“Fantasy.  Right.”  The words fell sarcastically from his mouth before he could stop them, and he bit his upper lip to keep himself from saying anything more. He came here to get information, not give it, and if he said the wrong thing, he might ruin whatever it was that Castiel had going on here.

“This male figure pops up quite often in his work.  He once called it the Righteous Man.  You can’t deny that this righteous man here looks an awful lot like you.”  She paused, waited. “And then there’s the way he was looking at you at the diner yesterday.”

He didn’t respond.  He’s not sure he could have if he wanted to. “Do you have more?”

She shook her head.  “No, I only have this one because I’m shipping it out. I handle all of that stuff for him since it was my idea to sell them, and he’s done fairly well for himself. He makes a living, anyway, and that’s apparently all he wants from it.  I wish I could get him to actually show them.  There’s so much wasted potential there.”

Dean nodded, still dumbfounded.  He had no idea.  He had absolutely no idea that Castiel could do this. That he would want to do this. That he would enjoy doing this. But then again, in all the years he has known the angel, there was never a time that Castiel didn’t surprise him. Why would it be any different now that he was human?

“But I’ve taken pictures.  I have photos of some of his work that I've put together sort of as a portfolio.  Would you like to see them?”

“Yes.  I’d like to see everything.”

She pulled out the chair by the table.  “Then I suggest you take a seat.”

 ______________________________

 

The sun had set and it was snowing again by the time Dean made it back to Castiel’s cabin.  He jumped out of the Impala and headed to the front door, anxious to reach Castiel, even though he didn’t know whether he was going to confront him with what Muriel had shown him, or just grab him and hold him and beg him to forgive him for being such a stubborn ass.

He knocked on the door more heavily than he should have, blamed it on the adrenalin surging through him.  When there was no answer, he called out to Castiel, then opened the unlocked door and went in.

“Cas?”  His eyes darted around the empty room.  Neither Cas nor Sam was there, but the lights were on, the fire was burning high in the fireplace and there was a half-eaten piece of pie left on the table, the used fork dropped beside it.  It looked as if Castiel had left in a hurry.

Or he had been taken. 

Dean briefly panicked at his last thought, then ran back outside.  When he saw that Castiel’s truck was also gone, he felt some relief, but not enough. He went around the back of the house to the shed.  It was unlocked, one of the barn doors already partially open so he pushed it the rest of the way and ventured inside the pitch black space.

Dean shoved his hand into his pocket, fumbled around for his cell phone, but before he got it out he bumped into something hard, heard a loud animal screech, felt something jump on and off of his shoulder.

“Fuck!” He yelled, spinning around quickly .

A bright overhead light switched on and Dean instantly found himself in the middle of what must have been Castiel’s studio. There were easels and tables, painting supplies neatly laid out on one table, rolled up canvas and scraps of wood on another.  The small room was lined with shelves on three sides, each one stacked with Castiel’s work.

“Dean?” Castiel gasped out his name once, then again. “Dean.”

Dean was close enough to see the deep blue of Castiel’s red-rimmed eyes looking up at him through his shaggy, snow-speckled hair, close enough to follow the up and down movement of Castiel’s chest with each heavy breath.

“Cas.”  Dean whined. “Where did you go? I was scared shitless that something happened to you.”

“I went looking for you.  But you came back.”

Dean nodded, moved closer. “Why didn’t you tell me about any of this?  Why didn’t you show me?”

“I wanted to. I was ashamed.” Castiel lowered his eyes.

“Ashamed? But it’s… they’re all… jesus, they’re beautiful.”

“For some reason, I was afraid for you to know that I never stopped thinking about you.  That despite what had happened, how you had let me go, that I could not do the same for you.  That I would never forget you.  That I would never be able to…”

“I never let you go, Cas.”

Castiel blinked, his lips curling into a wistful smile.  He fetched his glasses from the pocket inside his jacket and slid them onto his face.  “I know that now. You left your journal. I found it between the couch cushions.”

Dean slapped his jacket pocket where he usually kept the notebook and felt it was empty.  He caught his breath when he saw that Castiel was holding it in his hands.

“You looked for me. You wanted to find me, and you looked for me.”

“I wanted to find you more than anything.”

“You thought I was dead, but that didn’t stop you.”

“Nothing would’ve stopped me.”

Castiel opened the book and began to read.  “ _I found Cas--"_

“Cas, I…” Dean interrupted, then stopped.  He wanted Castiel to go on.  He _wanted_  him to read it out loud.  Castiel finally knew the things he hadn’t been able to say and he wanted them both to hear it.  He wanted the words to be spoken.

When Dean nodded once at him, Castiel continued.  “ _For three years I’ve just been waiting, one day at a time, for the end, and I didn’t much care because I knew when it came I would find Cas, on the other side. And when I saw him, walking down the street, it was finally over. It feels like I’ve been holding my breath since I fucked up and made him leave the bunker, like I’ve been running around with one hand tied behind my back, with my eyes half closed._ _But I've been saved, because he has saved me once again."_

Castiel took a long, loud breath.  _"_ _All these years of being pushed apart and pulled back together has to mean_ _something. I don’t believe in destiny or fate, but looking at him this morning, alive, safe, sleeping, and snoring, fucking snoring, right here by my side, it’s all but impossible not to."_

“Cas…”

“ _And so, now I know. Now I am sure, more sure than I ever thought I could be about anything in this world, that I…”_

“I love him,” Dean finished.  He closed his eyes, envisioned the rest of the words he wrote just that morning, then repeated them.  “I love him and I’ve found him and I am so damn happy, because I've also found the rest of my life.”

“Dean.” Castiel closed the book. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

Dean rushed forward and grabbed Castiel’s face in his hands, halted his apology with his mouth by plunging his tongue between Castiel’s lips.  It was quick and rough at first, and when Castiel whimpered Dean slowed it down, drew back slightly and parted his lips further.  Castiel took the offering, breathed into him while he sucked Dean's bottom lip between his, nibbled it with his teeth.  Dean let go of Castiel’s face and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close. Castiel tasted like redemption and pie and Dean could stand here and do this with him all fucking night. 

“I love you.”  Castiel dropped his head into the crook of Dean’s neck. “I thought I’d never say it out loud.  I thought, once you left, that you would never know.”

“I know,” Dean assured him, smoothed the hair on the top of Castiel’s head then kissed him there.  “And I’m never going to forget it, Castiel.  I promise you that.”

 ______________________________

 

“I’m an idiot.”  Dean whispered into the dark of Castiel’s room.

“I am aware of that, Dean. And I’m a mess, I'm afraid.”

“That you are, Cas. I think I can help you with that.” Dean tightened his grip on the hips of the man lying under him. 

“Likewise.”

“And just so you know, what we just did, still not everything.  There’s lots more I want to show you.”

He felt Castiel smile into his shoulder, then nip it playfully.

“But we’re taking it slow still, right?”

“Slow-ish.  But no hurries.  You’re stuck with me for the rest of our lives, Tiger.”

“And then some,” Castiel added, and Dean did not disagree.

 ______________________________

 

“I like this one.”

Castiel leaned back against one of his work tables, his legs and arms crossed casually, his eyeglasses pulled down to the tip of his nose, as Dean went through the canvases stacked up on wall-to-wall shelves.  “Which one?”

Dean carefully extricated the painting and held it up for Castiel to see.

“Ah, yes. That’s a good choice.”

Depicted on the canvas was a park, with children playing and scattered about.  The grass was green, the sky was clear and blue, the trees the colors of autumn. Painted in one corner were two park benches, a man in a trench coat on one, the righteous man on the other.

“That was one of my first pieces.  It holds a great deal of sentiment for me.  No angels.”

“Well, one angel,” Dean corrected.  “That’s you on the bench there, Van Gogh.”

“But I’m not there as an angel.”

“What do you mean?”

“That was the time when I first came to truly understand why _you_ were the righteous man.” Castiel smiled and lowered his eyes, remembering.  “And when I confided in you in that park, it was the first time I had ever offered anything of myself to another living being.  We spoke man to man, and in those all-too-brief moments, I felt human.”

Dean grinned at his own memory of that day, then cleared his throat and went to Castiel.  He stooped down and rubbed Sam the dog's head.  “And bonus, it’s going to look pretty goddamned fantastic over the fireplace. So there’s that."

“Put up whatever you’d like, Dean.  It’s your home now too.”

“I’ve got some ideas. But next week for sure we’re picking up a television and getting you a damn cell phone. Ain't that right, girl?””

The dog bounced up on Dean and licked his face.  "See?  Sam agrees."

Castiel chewed on his bottom lip, bit back a grin. “Of course.”

Satisfied, he stood back up.  He held onto the painting with one firm hand, offered the other one to Castiel.

“You want to go back inside and have some pie?  I think we still have pie.”

“Yes.“  Castiel slid his palm over Dean's then closed his hand, binding them together. "I’d love some pie.”


	6. Epilogue- The Ones We Learn to Live With

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know that this is long for an epilogue, but it really shouldn't be read without the main story, so that's why I've put it here rather than as a separate work.

He meant to tell Sam about Castiel. Technically, he _did_ tell Sam about Castiel. He just didn’t exactly tell him yet about, well, _Castiel_ , because that would mean telling Sam something about himself that he hadn’t entirely reconciled.

So when Sam appeared at the cabin’s front door without so much as a phone call’s notice, Dean was, in every way, unprepared.

“Sam! What the hell are you doing here?”

Sam looked down at his shorter brother, frowned at the chilly greeting. “Nice to see you too, Dean. But I came to see Cas.”

“Cas?”

Sam’s gaze moved past Dean and into the room behind him. “Yes, Cas. The one who lives here, according to the directions from the guy at the General Store in town. My friend, Castiel, aka Bobby, who I thought was dead for the last few years and just found out is alive. You know, that one?”

It took Dean a few seconds to react and it was, in all likelihood, not the reaction Sam might have expected. “That guy at the store gave you directions?” Dean was thoroughly insulted as he recalled the much less friendly response he had received when he stopped in there asking about Castiel.

“Clearly. Or I never would have found this place.” Sam dropped his backpack off of his shoulder and grabbed the strap with his hand. “Dean? Can I come in? It’s cold out here.”

Dean snapped out of his stunned stupor and stepped aside. “Yeah, yeah. Of course.”

Sam brushed his boots on the mat before he slowly entered, his eyes still roaming around the room, taking it all in as he carefully stepped inside.

“Smells good in here. You cooking?”

“There’s lasagna in the oven.” Dean wiped his hands on the dishtowel he was holding and dropped it on the table. “You should have called. I was planning to bring him to your place to visit.”

“So you said. But it’s been like, three weeks.”

“Nineteen days. It’s been nineteen days.” Not that he’d been counting. Dean took Sam’s jacket from him and hung it on the hook by the door, then sat down at the table with him.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were intentionally avoiding me,” Sam accused.

“What? No!” Dean’s denial fell short and he knew it.  It lacked the usual indignation, and Sam wasn’t buying it.

“Right. Anyway, I figured you’d be heading back to the bunker soon, so I thought I’d just save you a trip west.” Sam craned his neck toward the bedroom. “Where is he?”

“You mean Cas?”

Frustrated, Sam exhaled loudly. “Yes, of course I mean-- Dean, are you okay?” Sam’s face fell suddenly. “Wait. Is Cas okay? Did something happen—“

“Cas is fine.” Dean said. “I’m fine. We’re both…fine. He’s out back in the shed. Painting.”

“Painting?”

“Yeah. He’s an artist now. He made that.” Dean pointed to the unframed canvas hanging above the fireplace mantel.

“Wow.” Sam got up and walked over to it, stood directly in front of it. “That’s…wow.”

Dean smiled proudly. “I know, right?”

“Is that you? And him?” Sam’s face moved closer, examining it.

“Yeah. You weren’t there, but after the Samhain thing, we had a chat in the park.”

“Hmm.” Sam rested his hands on his hips. “And he painted it? You and him?”

“Well, yeah. It’s a thing that happened. He paints things that happened.”

“Okay, okay,” Sam agreed. “And then he hung it here? Over the fireplace in his home? A painting of you and him?”

“No, he… So?”

“Don’t you think it’s a little weird?”

Dean shrugged. “Everything about Cas is a little weird. You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Sam snorted. “Nevermind. It’s probably nothing.”

“People pay for his stuff, Sam. That’s how he’s been making a living since he…you know.”

Sam dropped his eyes and nodded. “Yeah. But this, this is great.” He admired the painting a few moments longer, then turned back to Dean. “How long are you gonna stay here, Dean?”

“What?”

Sam’s brows furrowed. He was about to question Dean further when the dog with the best and worst timing on the planet ran into the room and jumped up on him, her front paws stretched out on Sam’s long thighs.

Sam reached down and scratched the top of her head. “So I’m guessing this is Cas’s dog.”

“Yep.”

“What’s his name?”

“Sam.”

“Sam? Haha, that’s an awesome name.”

Sam looked far too pleased with himself. “Yeah, well it’s a girl so it makes sense,” Dean chided.

“Wait a minute.” Sam bent over the dog to stroke her back. “It bothers you. It bothers you that the dog’s name is Sam.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You’re jealous,” he teased. “Oh my god, you’re jealous!”

“No, I’m not. And for your information, he had a dog named Dean that was very brave and got killed in the line of duty. A boy dog, by the way.”

“And he got this one afterwards?”

“Yeah.”

“So he could’ve named her Dean. If he wanted to.”

“No. I don’t know. Shut up.”

Sam laughed, then reached for his jacket hanging by the door. “So where’s the shed? I’m anxious to see him.”

Dean scratched the back of his head. Maybe he should tell Sam now that he and Castiel are together. Just blurt it out. _Oh yeah, Sam, by the way, our best friend? Turns out I’m in love with him. Which was hardly a surprise, since I’ve been thinking about boning him for years._

“No, wait here,” Dean said. “I’ll go get him. Dinner’s almost ready anyway.”

______________________________

 

The door was partially open, and Dean slipped in quietly and unseen. Castiel stood in front of his easel, wearing a paint-speckled sweater two-sizes too big and a knit beanie cap pulled down over the tips of his ears. He scrutinized his art while he chewed on the end of a wood handled paintbrush.

Dean watched him in silence. He liked Castiel this way; so caught up in his work that he didn’t even notice Dean sneak in, making faces at the canvas as if it was a living thing. Being so extraordinarily human.

He’d spent the last three weeks with his friend soaking that all up, immersing himself in everything Castiel offered, trying to make up for the time lost. No, “lost” wasn’t the right word. It was time Dean screwed them both out of when he made Castiel leave the bunker.

Truth was, he hadn’t been avoiding Sam. He’d been out and out ignoring him. Putting him off when he called because he wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready to share Castiel, he wasn’t ready to spend one day away from this cabin, and he wasn’t ready to explain to Sam the reasons why.

“It’s cold in here.” Dean spoke softly. He didn’t want to startle Castiel, but he did.

“Dean.” Castiel looked at him and smiled, then nodded. “It’s fine. This portable heater keeps me warm enough.”

“Are you sure?  We can get a bigger heater.”

“I don’t believe there’s room in here for that.” Castiel shrugged. “And I don’t want the temperature in here to fluctuate too much. That could damage the paintings.”

“Is that so?” Dean had no idea about these things and was suitably impressed that Castiel did. He made a mental note of the temperature issue while he glanced around the shed-turned-art studio.  Come Spring, he planned to renovate this space for Castiel, make it into someplace more comfortable for him, an art studio worthy of all the time Castiel liked to spend here. Time he needed to spend here.

“I’ll be fine if I wear a few more layers.”

“We have company.” Dean crossed the room to Castiel, stood behind him and peered over his shoulder at the canvas on the easel. He couldn’t help but smile. “I like it.”

Castiel's head tipped to one side. “It’s not my usual theme. But for some reason, this is what I feel like painting these days.”

“That’s because I’ve created a monster.” Dean snickered, wondered if he really looked that good when he was naked in bed, or if Castiel had taken some liberties. He pushed away the hair on the back of Castiel’s neck beneath the edge of his knit cap and laid a quick kiss on the skin there. Castiel pulled a cloth down over the painting to cover it. “Is it Muriel?”

“No. It’s Sam.”

“Sam’s here?” Castiel spun around, dropping his brush. He picked it up, then grabbed a rag and scrubbed the paint from his hands. “He’s back from his trip? He’s in the cabin?”

Dean nodded. In order to explain Sam’s conspicuous absence and radio silence, he had told Castiel that Sam was away with his wife and could not be reached by phone. It was a shitty thing to do, he knew, but it gave him the time he needed.

Castiel dropped the dirty rag on a table, and Dean grabbed onto the hem of Castiel’s sweater to stop his hurried exit. “Wait, Cas. I’ve got to tell you something first.”

“What is it? Is he all right?”

“He’s fine. It’s just that, well, he doesn’t know…I haven’t told him that we’re not going back to the bunker. I haven’t told him yet that I’m staying here with you.”

Castiel’s face relaxed, his relief obvious. “Well we can tell him now. Sam will understand, and it’s likely he won’t be too disappointed. Our home is closer to his home than the bunker is.”

“Yeah, well, there’s something else.”

“What do you mean?” Castiel canted his head, forehead wrinkled.

“Hey guys!” Sam bellowed his greeting from the shed’s doorway. “Cas! I can’t believe it, man.” It only took Sam four strides to reach Castiel and wrap him up in his arms. Dean barely had time to release his grip on Castiel’s sweater before Sam was pulling the smaller man off of his feet and hoisting him into the air. “Damn, Cas. I missed you!”

The two men were beaming, positively radiating happiness, and when he saw Sam wipe at his eyes, Dean was nearly overcome with the guilt of selfishly keeping these two apart for so long.

“Hey Dean, I came to tell you that there was a buzzer going off in the kitchen.” Sam kept his hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Have to do with dinner?”

Dean’s eyes grew big. “Yes, it’s done! I’ve got to get it out of the oven,” he said, but did not move. He didn’t get to tell Castiel exactly what Sam did not yet know. He couldnt leave the two of them alone.

“Are you going to go take it out of the oven?” Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean.

Dean held up one finger. “Yes. Yes I am.”

All three men stood silently still until a look of sudden comprehension came over Castiel’s face. “I’ll do it,” he blurted. “You two can stay here and talk if you’d like.”

Castiel winked at Dean as he left them alone in the shed.

“Would Cas mind if I looked at some of this stuff?” Sam waved his arm around the small studio.

Dean shook his head. “Nah. I think he’d be okay with it.”

Sam rambled around the room, with Dean following close behind him. He flipped through stacks of canvasses on the shelves and floors. He picked up paint supplies and examined them as if they were foreign objects. “This is pretty incredible,” he said after several minutes. “I’m kind of blown away.”

“Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction too.”

Sam edged his way toward Castiel’s easel and when he reached out to push the cloth aside, Dean slapped his hand away and yelled “no!”

“Ouch!” Sam rubbed his hand, frowned at Dean. “What was that about?”

“You can’t look at that one,” Dean said.

“Why not.”

“Why not?” Dean looked up at the ceiling, as if the answer could be found there. Sam looked up too. “Because it’s a surprise,” he said slowly. “For you and Emily.”

“Oh.” Sam grinned. “I’d love to have something Cas painted. You said he paints things that have happened?”

Dean hesitated, stepped between Sam and the easel. “Yeah, he does. Why do you ask?”

Sam twisted his mouth. “Well I’m thinking maybe I should check it out first. I can’t exactly bring home a painting of Lucifer that looks just like me.”

“It’s nothing like that,” Dean assured him, and at least that part was true. “I promise you.”

“Okay.” Sam slipped his hands in his pocket and backed away. “If you say so. Should we go back now? I’m kind of starving.”

“Yes, absolutely.” With both hands on his brother’s large back, Dean pushed Sam out of the shed and toward the cabin he now called home.

______________________________

 

“That was delicious. Thanks Dean.” Sam wiped his mouth with a paper napkin.

Dean smiled. He always enjoyed feeding Sam, even when they were kids and he had no real idea what they should be eating or how to get the food. Every time Sam sat down to a meal he prepared for him – whether it was a bowl of cereal or homemade mac and cheese – Dean felt useful, accomplished.

“I agree,” Castiel piped in. “And I think I’d like some more, Dean.”

Feeding Castiel was different. It was as satisfying as feeding Sam, and in some ways more so, but Dean’s gratification came more from Castiel’s enjoyment of the food than from any sense of duty or purpose.

Castiel made no move toward the pan of lasagna, and Sam watched while Dean cut off another square with the sharp spatula and placed it on his plate for him.

“I cook, I serve,” Dean informed him.

The dinner conversation had gone well, thanks mostly to Castiel, who wanted only to hear about Sam's new life with his wife Emily.  There was one close call, when Castiel brought up Sam's fabricated trip, but Dean successfully deflected with tales of the Grand Canyon vacation he and Sam took before Sam went back to school.

“How did you know, Sam?” Castiel asked. “That Emily was the one for you?”

Sam smiled, leaned back in his chair. “I think I felt something from the first time I met her in my contracts class. But I remember the day I understood exactly what was happening between us.”

“What happened?” Castiel stood, began clearing the dishes from the table while Dean sealed the leftover food into plastic containers for the refrigerator.

“Emily has a pretty tight but demanding family. Wealthy, politically connected, republican types with lots of expectations. We’d been dating about four months, and there was a huge family reunion cruise she was scheduled to go on. It’d been planned for a couple years, I think. Just before she was supposed to leave, I got the flu. Fever, vomiting, the whole nine. She insisted on staying with me. I told her I would be okay, that I could call my brother for help if I really needed it, and that my landlady who lived downstairs had agreed to look after me. I didn’t expect it, but she stayed anyway. She took care of me, watched over me.”

“Was her family upset?” Castiel asked.

Sam’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, when I say they were ticked, that’s pretty much an understatement. They weren’t happy about her choice, but it meant everything to me. She’d put me ahead of her own family, and I knew that wasn’t easy for her. That’s when I understood that we weren’t just seeing one another; we were falling in love.”

“That’s a lovely story, Sam,” Castiel said from his perch beside Dean in front of the kitchen sink.

“I never heard that before.” Dean gulped, bit back the urge to reach for the hand of the man next to him. Castiel glanced over at him, a tiny, knowing quirk at one corner of his full pink lips, and Dean wanted nothing more than to lick those lips, to kiss that smile and make it his own. And he contemplated it, until Castiel turned around and began to scrub the dishes in the sink.

Dean automatically picked up the dishtowel and began to dry the dishes and put them away. He knew by now where everything belonged, had even rearranged most of the cabinets and drawers since Castiel was neither neat nor practical in his storage of kitchenware and food.

Dean heard Sam clear his throat from his seat at the table, and when he turned around, he saw that Sam was watching them through narrowed eyes.

“What?” Dean held his hands out.

Sam shook his head. “Nothing, it’s just…nothing. I should probably head back soon."

Castiel finished the last dish and handed it to Dean, then dried his hands on another dishtowel. “You should stay tonight, Sam. You’ve come a relatively long way. Get a good night’s sleep before you drive another three hours.”

“Psh, three hours.” Dean screwed up his face. “That’s nothing Cas. We’re used to driving twenty plus hours without stopping. If we were really in a hurry, we wouldn’t even stop to pee. Just go in a cup. Or hang it out the window, right Sam?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I did that once, Dean. No one was around. And I acknowledge that it was a bad idea.”

“Yeah, piss everywhere,” Dean laughed, then feigned anger. “All over my baby. Not cool. Point is, the Winchesters have mastered the fine art of driving, and Sam can drive three hours with his eyes closed.”

Castiel frowned at Dean.

“Well not literally with his eyes closed,” he amended. “You know what I mean.”

“It’s true,"  Sam grunted. "But yeah, I’d love to stay, Cas, if that’s okay?”

“Good.” Castiel side-eyed Dean. “You can sleep on the couch.”

Sam looked over at the couch, then back at Castiel and Dean. “Then where will Dean sleep? I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“Oh that’s no problem," Castiel responded.  "Dean always sleeps—“

"On the floor."  Dean cut Castiel off with a sharp elbow jab. “I sleep on the floor, Sam.”

“You sleep on the floor?” Sam and Castiel said at the same time.

“It’s warm by the fireplace, and I’ve been having some back issues, so the hard floor has been great.”

"Huh."  Sam stood up, pulled his phone from his pocket. “Sure. Okay then. Well I’ve got to call my wife and let her know.”

“Your best signal is outside,” Dean advised.  “Closer to the road the better.”

Sam nodded, grabbed his jacket before he went outside.

“Dean. What’s going on?”  Castiel's question was stern, direct.

Dean looked down at his feet as he shuffled one of them along the wood floor. “I haven’t told Sam about not going back to bunker,” he explained. “And I haven’t told him why.”

“You mean you haven’t told him about us?”

Dean nodded without looking up.

“Dean.” Dean could hear the let down, the sadness in Castiel’s voice. “Why haven’t you?”

Dean raised his chin and shrugged. “I don’t know, Cas. It’s just, it’s hard. I’m not sure why.”

“Other people know. Muriel, Donna. That doesn’t seem to bother you.”

“That’s different.”

“How? How is it different?”

“I don’t know,” Dean mumbled. “It just is.”

Castiel sighed loudly. “I think I understand.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I do. Once you tell Sam, you can’t take it back. Once you tell Sam, you can’t change your mind about it because Sam will know that you have enjoyed intimacy with a man, and perhaps that makes this all too real for you.“

“Fuck, no! That’s not it. Not at all.” Dean reached for him, but Castiel pulled away and stepped towards the bedroom.  “Please don’t be mad.” 

"He wasn't away on a trip, was he Dean."

It wasn't a question, but Dean answered it anyway. "No."

Castiel shook his head. “I’m going to go to bed. Please tell Sam goodnight for me, and I’ll see him in the morning.”

Sam the dog followed Castiel into the room. Castiel grabbed the bed pillow designated as Dean’s, shoved it at him, then closed the door, leaving Dean standing outside of it. Dean fetched some blankets from the closet and waited for Sam to return.

______________________________

 

He sat up straight when he heard it. He wasn’t really sleeping anyway, and had been listening for it, expecting it. The whimpers and moans coming from the bedroom were nearly inaudible, but Dean knew what they were and that Castiel needed him. He looked over at Sam, out like a light on the sofa, and deemed it to be safe. He pushed himself to his feet and tiptoed over to the bedroom door, wrapped his hand around the knob and slowly turned it, but it didn’t budge. He tried again, more forcefully this time, but it wouldn’t open. It was locked. He could easily pick the lock, briefly considered it, but the only reason Castiel would have used the lock was because he did not want Dean to come in during the night.

Dean stood by the door and listened. “Cas,” he breathed out, then hushed himself. He rested his forehead against the door panel, splayed his hand across the wood surface and stayed there until the muffled, dream-induced cries from within stopped and Castiel was silent again.

______________________________

 

Dean made the trip down the mountain in less than the usual thirty minutes. He had left as soon as it was light outside, knowing that the grocery would be open by the time he got there. He’d learned a lot about Endurance in the short time he had been there.

Neither Sam nor Castiel was awake when he left. Truthfully, he hadn’t really been able to sleep, even after Castiel’s nightmare ended. He sucked at being a companion, even more than he sucked at being a brother. But he was good at cooking, and that is what he would do. Omelets, he decided, and bacon and sausage, maybe even some fruit for Sam.

He needed some time alone in Baby. Time to think, to figure out why it was so hard for him to tell Sam about his new life. Castiel was wrong. Even though not telling Sam did leave him with an escape route, he didn’t want one. He’d made his choice, and he wasn’t going to leave Castiel ever again, even if that meant never returning to the bunker.

Part of him, though, was afraid of disappointing Sam, of exposing him to the possibility of animus and intolerance not of Sam’s choosing.  The last thing he wanted to do was embarrass Sam, to become the outed brother that soon-to-be lawyer Sam couldn't talk about around his narrow-minded inlaws and high-brow friends. Sam already had enough secrets he had to keep.

As long as Dean had known Castiel, he put Dean first, before heaven, before his own brothers and sisters. Yet Dean’s priority had always, without compromise, been Sam.  It was the reason he’d lost Castiel three years ago, and he wouldn’t let that happen again.  He and Castiel were together now, plain and simple.  There was nothing that was going to change that, and it was time for Dean to put Castiel first; before blood, before Sam. He would find a way to say the words, to tell Sam who he really was, what he and Cas were together, regardless of the consequences.

______________________________

 

Dean left a note on the table before he went into town, but he took a little longer than intended, having to turn around and go back to the store when he realized he forgot to buy Oreos.

He called Sam on the way back to tell him when he would be there, but really to check up on Castiel, who still, damn it to hell, did not have a phone of his own. They were both fine, Sam told him. They were talking about hunting and Sam was teaching him a few tricks of the trade.

Dean shoved the sacks of food into one arm as he opened the front door, and seconds later, upon seeing Castiel, dropped them both. He was tied to one of the kitchen chairs, his arms pulled taut behind the backrest where Sam was crouched down, knotting the rope that held his wrists together.

“There,” Sam said, patting Castiel’s shoulder. “Now see if you can get out of—“ He startled, jumped to his feet when the groceries crashed to the ground.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Dean roughly pushed Sam away from Castiel then fell to his knees in front of the bound man. He fumbled in his pocket for his knife to cut him loose.

“Geez, Dean, calm down. I was just showing Cas the special knot we used on that witch when we were…” Sam’s words stopped suddenly when he realized what was happening. He dropped down and hastily sliced through the bindings.

Castiel was gasping for air, as if unable to breathe. His eyes widened and fluttered while his body shivered uncontrollably, even though his skin was covered in a layer of sweat, small droplets of it rolling down the side of his face.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” Sam said once Castiel's hands were free.  “Dean, I didn’t know. He said it was okay. I swear, I had no idea.”

“Shhh.” Dean shushed Sam, then took Castiel’s face in his hands and spoke to him softly. “Hey, Cas, it’s me. You’re here with me, now. We’re in our home in the mountains. Do you see me?”

“Dean?” Castiel put his hands on Dean’s shoulders, tried to focus on the man in front of him.

“That’s right sweetheart. I’m here. And you’re here. You’re not there anymore. That’s the past and it’s over. It’s done. You’re here now with me. That’s what’s real. You and me. Now breathe with me. Can you breathe with me?”

Castiel nodded and followed Dean’s lead, sucking in long, deep breaths, then exhaling slowly. “There you go.” Dean gently stroked Castiel’s head as he methodically breathed in and out. “That’s it. You’re doing great. You’re gonna be fine. We’re almost there.”

Once Castiel was breathing normally, he stilled, closed his eyes and slumped in the chair, exhausted. Dean carefully dragged him off of it and onto his lap, slid one hand behind Castiel’s back for support while the other one pushed through his dark, damp hair. “You did it, baby,” Dean whispered to him. “I’m so proud of you.” He pressed his lips against Castiel’s forehead.

By the time Dean noticed Sam staring at them, his mouth gaping, seemingly mesmerized, Castiel was asleep in his arms.

“A little help here?” Dean barked, and Sam leapt up, came over to them and picked Castiel up, carried him to his bed.

“Dean.” It was the only thing Sam said when they left the bedroom, but Dean knew that behind the one word was a hundred questions.

“He’s been through a lot,” Dean explained to Sam while looking around the cabin, avoiding eye contact. “And he didn’t sleep much last night, so that probably didn’t help.”

“Dean,” Sam repeated.

“They’re not usually that bad, at least not that I’ve seen. But I think maybe the rope…”

“Dean…”

“And it’s not your fault. You had no way of knowing…”

“Dean, listen to me.” Sam spoke more firmly. “What I just saw? That was…unbelievable.”

Dean nodded, discomfited. “I know. I should have said something to you sooner.” Dean looked up at his brother, was taken aback when he saw Sam’s red-rimmed eyes.

“What you just did for Cas? That was amazing. You’re amazing, Dean.”

Dean blinked several times. “That’s what you got out of that?”

Sam exhaled sharply, shook his head. “And you love him.”

“Yeah, I do.” Dean lowered his chin to his chest. “I love him, love him. Like you love Emily.”

“Yeah, I got that.” Sam smirked. “To be honest, I should have figured it out much sooner. The way you avoided me, the painting over the fireplace, your married couple routines, your sleeping arrangements, and your clothes are in Cas’s room, right? 'Cause this is one small place and I didn’t see them anywhere else.”

“I’m good at hiding things.” Dean shrugged, chewed his bottom lip. “Listen, Sam, if you want to keep this to yourself, if you don’t want to tell your wife or even your kids, when you have them, it’s okay. I understand.”

“Not tell my wife? What are you even…? Jesus, Dean, Dad really did a number on you.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, that’s not gonna happen. I’m much too proud of being your little brother.” Sam grabbed Dean and folded him into his long arms. “I’m so happy, Dean. You deserve this. You both do. Don’t you ever forget that.”

Dean smiled into his brother’s shoulder. “Believe me, I won’t.”

“So Dean, that painting you didn’t want me to see? That’s not really a gift for me and Emily, is it?”

“It sure as hell ain’t, Sam.”

______________________________

 

“Why here, Cas? How did you end up here?”

The two men sat side by side on the front porch bench, each one wrapped in a blanket, a cup of coffee in hand.

“It was the name of the town, actually. Endurance. Dean and I had been going from one place to the next with no real plan, no real purpose. And then I saw the sign. Endurance, one mile ahead. We stopped for coffee, and inside the diner there was a poster on the wall. It persuaded me to stay.”

“A poster made you want to stay? What was it, Farrah Fawcett? A kitten hanging onto a pipe with his tiny kitten paws?”

Castiel squinted at Dean. “No. It was what the poster said that convinced me. It contained a quote by William Barclay. ‘Endurance is not just the ability to bear a hard thing, but to turn it into glory.’ I think, at the time, I was looking for just that. A way to continue on, to get better, to perhaps, even someday, triumph. “

Dean wriggled his hand out from under his blanket and set it on Castiel’s thigh. “I think, in a lot of ways, you already have, Cas.”

Castiel smiled as he surveyed the expanse of snow-capped mountains laid out before them. “And you can’t beat the view from here, Dean. It’s breathtaking.”

Dean watched Castiel sip from his morning coffee, then yawn. It was his first cup of the day, and there would likely be one, maybe two more before Castiel was fully awake. He was a sight, like this. His stubbled cheeks reddened by the chilled air; his overgrown hair falling in swirls over flushed ears; his deep blue eyes brightened by reflections of snow and sky.

“Yes,” Dean said. “It truly is.”


End file.
